<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>Dunadaneth by Inthebeginning</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29218347">Dunadaneth</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Inthebeginning/pseuds/Inthebeginning'>Inthebeginning</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Dúnedain - Freeform, F/M, Gen, Númenor, The tales of Numenor</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-02-05</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-03-22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 07:15:48</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Not Rated</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>44,898</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29218347</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Inthebeginning/pseuds/Inthebeginning</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>To every story, there is a beginning. Derooted and homeless, the Dunedain are left after the destruction of their last kingdom. Wandering the lands of Arnor and further South and North, protecting what little is left of their once mighty kingdoms.<br/>What becomes of their fate? Of Aragorn's we know, but what of the other Dunedain, of which he is Chieftain? What role do they play in the destruction of the ring and the protection of Middle Earth.<br/>How does one preserve the culture of days lost and spent? What part does the keeper of tales have in it all?<br/>Morwen is old and alone, the soles of her shoes are too thin and her feet weary of wandering. She is a child of mortal woman and immortal elf, keeper of tales and relic of old. Something that has prevailed through the years, when it should have not. She is one of the Dunedain and yet she is not, suspended between mortal and immortal, not one nor the other, indecisiv and unsure of her own path. Only one thing she knows: She is the keeper of tales, loyal to the old blood of Numenor and her chieftain.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Legolas Greenleaf/Original Female Character(s)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>19</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>To every story, there is a beginning. </em>
</p><p>“Halbarad.” She cried through the forest, branches dangling low into her face, as if it took pleasure from straying hinderingly in her path and making her blind. She cursed and fretted, and wondered why she could not smell him, for all of them had not showered in weeks and he smelt poignantly. So stringently really, that she could tell him easily apart from any other male.</p><p>For days she had sat in the bush, eating berries, some stale bread and dried meat. All which they had gathered upon their last visit in a small town, the name of said town, or rather village, did not matter.</p><p>But hunting would be too dangerous and in the end, pointless, for they could not risk the hazard of a fire. The smoke would have given away their position and made the pack, that they were hunting, wearier than they were already. Nonetheless she would have greatly appreciated a bit of grilled meat, even if it were charred and cooked by Taron – with no salt and little love and skill. Her mouth watered at the thought. She was depleted of any taste.</p><p>It was as if Sauron himself had cast a luminous fog over the entire forest and fields beyond the Shire, reaching Southwards. She could hear the pack – never far astray and loud, disconcerted for any sort of secrecy, yet they could not grasp hold of them for some uncanny reason.</p><p>The second thing that made her uneasy – as well as her captain – was the fact, that the hoard did not plunder and murder, but rather burn and stride through the lands without leaving behind complete misery, as was such common practice of the orcs. The charred bodies they came upon, only miles behind the pack, were all intact, whereas orcs were normally vehemently interested in any meat and specifically human flesh. Why they had not touched those corpses, made up riddles upon riddles for the rangers of the North.</p><p>But then there had not been many bodies after all, and she wondered if they were truly of orc origin or rather some disease’s fault and the village had been abandoned therefore abandoned. She cast away the thought, for if it were so, she would have long heard whispers of it, humming in the backyards at the passing strangers, or in a tavern or near the boarders of Bree land. No – something was smelling fishy and she could sense it crawling under her skin.</p><p>It had kept her captain awake for nights on end – until finally, he had dug Taron and her out of the bushes on the western boarder of the Shire, where they had lain watch and hidden away from the homely Halflings. Kuduk they called themselves, in their own tongue – but as they were only half the size of a normal man, Halfling seemed more descriptive. That was at least true for her taste, not that she intended to insult any of them.</p><p>She shimmied around some trees and a thick hedge of bushes and bumped into Taron, who held a finger to his lips and motioned her, to still her voice and feet.</p><p>He pointed towards a thicket, where long brown boots piqued out, shabby and worn yet still intact and would probably last for another winter at least. Halbarad leaned against a tree and peeked onto a clearing, amidst the birches, yews and oaks, their leaves goldening on the tips, for Autumn was about to come. On the other side of the clearing Isilan sat, squeezed between two tree branches and covered by half a thicket, she could only spot him because of his black boots, that dangled off a trunk. It looked very uncomfortable and she would have given a leg and an arm to see his miserable face.</p><p>She looked at her captain and saw that he was pondering over something – she suspected which way to go, for he lifted his fingers, turned them clockwise and pointed at the trees, before sending Taron and her off with two sharp snaps.</p><p>Swiftly the dark-haired man – who was the epitome of a Dúnedan – leaned against the next tree and offered to be her human ladder, so she could climb into the treetop and spy on the pack. They were moving somewhere – not too far – in the woods, she could feel the floor vibrating and the leaves rattle, yet they were nowhere to be found. The woods were otherwise eerily quiet, and she twisted her ears to hear any noise of animals and beast, or at least trees. But other than the rustling, nothing came to her ears.</p><p>Uneasily she placed her feet in the hands, he offered her. Easily he lifted her up to the first branch and she gripped for it, before swinging her leg over it and wriggling her way up over the trunk to the tip of it. The thick and gnarled branch carried her willingly. At the whisp she clatched onto the light and thin branches and their reddening leaves and stared ahead. A quarter mile ahead, the trees shook lightly and seemed to move apart, she clicked her tongue.</p><p>She had seen all that she needed, all that she had wished for and hopped off the whisp onto the soft hummus of the forest floor, back amongst her companions. She pointed towards a thicket on the other side and lead the way into the clearing and over it. Halbarad spoke pensively, his voice but a bare whisper: “They are moving towards the crossing of Bruinen – did they move north or south?” He asked and looked worriedly into the thicket, where now even he could take a glance upon the moving bushes, that were trampled and the grass that was spoiled by orc feet and their dirty deeds and hearts – if they indeed had hearts – for she did not know. “No, straight ahead, unless they decide otherwise, but they are orcs…” She left the last bit unsaid.</p><p>Orcs were dull and daft and more often than not; their next step was easily mapped out many steps in advance. But that was now not that sure anymore, for they had not been able to take a hold of them for many days and Halbarad had grown increasingly weary. Isilan was weary too and urging them to go on, for he did not want to lose sight of them again. His dark brows moved and danced upon the ragged nerves of his forehead and spoke of his great concern.</p><p>“We will meet them over the crossing, there are quite a few rocks where we can hide behind – here in the forest we have no chance of catching all of them. Keep one alive – if he does not make for the run.” Halbarad commanded and motioned her, to lead the way – her three companions following on her feet closely, for the forest here, near Imladris, was thick and one could easily get lost – not that a ranger ever truly got lost in the forest, for it was their home and one did not get lost in their home.</p><p>“If we catch them today, we shall make halt at Imladris – and maybe pass by the Angle.” The captain added and she fastened her pace, for the prospects of a hot bath and a warm bed excited her, had the last days been rather cruel and cold and even though she carried eleven blood in her veins and her companions were much more to be pitied, she had cold feet and holy socks and a wish for something proper to eat.</p><p>Besides, Halbarad reeked – well everybody reeked, and she would relish the scent of clean clothes and clean men under her nose, for as long as she could – not that she smelled any better. A grin spread across her ragged lips, that were popped and littered with little wounds, for the weather had been dry and then wet again and had sucked all the moisture out of her skin – and the wax used for her bowstring contained too little moisture and too much wax to truly aid. Nonetheless it was a small remedy against the burning sensation, and she had applied it at night, when her companions had been sleeping and she had guarded the three cloaked figures, huddled together under a tree or thicket, appreciating the shallow protection.</p><p>The clouds over the swallowing forest grew darker and pulled sternly from the North, promising cold autumn rain and she ran a little bit faster, for as much as she desired a bath, she would prefer it to be hot and not cold and dashing. Isilan, behind her, cared now little for being discrete and hacked his way through the forest, with hands and arms, shins and knees and the occasional hint of steel.</p><p>The trees grew steadily lighter and before them, they could hear the rumbling sound of the Bruinen, which was here, a few miles north of the crossing, rather turbulent and unforgiving, hateful of every crosser by and willing to tear anyone with them, to drown and kill.</p><p>She was looking forward to going to Imladris – not solemnly because of the bath, but also because her brother would wait there for her, for he stood under the service of the Lord of Imladris, Elrond and was the most conscientious secretary of Master Erestor, the Harold of the household and Lord Elronds chief advisor.</p><p>Baron, her brother was called by that name, was an adamant lover of everything to do with numbers, if she had not guessed otherwise, she would have reckoned him to be in love with them – well in a way he was – in his very own and specific way. If one could, if he had inherited the gift of poetry and verses, he would rhyme over the steady mathematics.</p><p>He loved his books and the wax tablets, that he scribbled on all day long, for there was little haste in Imladris and if he completed his task before or after dinner scarsly mattered.</p><p>Taron panted remorselessly behind her and he, himself looked rather as if he was already sitting in a bathtub in Imladris. She would have to make sure to get in before him, or otherwise, all that would be left was dirty and ashy water, soaked in male sweat and musk – and she did not love that smell in particular, on herself. Although every once in a while, when the nights were cold and warmth was needed, she would bundle in a pile with him, as close as possible, skin on skin.</p><p>Finally, they broke through the last line of trees and left behind the last yew, Halbarad was glad and he could feel a small but significant weight fall off his shoulders, for there were no orc traces in the gravel, nor had the beating feet of the hoard behind them stopped. Readily he commanded his three rangers to hide in the steep trees and behind a tumble of rocks. He, himself took up camp behind that said pile of rocks and had a little chuckle, when he saw the Half elf disappear in a tree, her head perking out between the pined branches and her bow drawn from her back. He was also not surprised to see Taron ascend upon the tree next, not as high as her and not as fast, but still, the tall man crawled up the branches and readied his crossbow. The movements almost lanky. They all carried the same set of dark hair and grey eyes, handed down through the lines of the Númenoreans, that were now called the Dúnedain. But that was a tale better told by the Half elf, and not Halbarad.</p><p>She glanced upon Taron and pitied him, for as strong as he was, he carried almost triple her weight on his body. Even for a Dúnedan he was large and tall and as wide as a small rock – he also weighed as much as a small boulder and ate as much as a tall Shire horse. She pulled a dark bow from her back, with recurved limbs and a riser, covered in leather, a dark arrow came from her quiver, which she carried on her back and she placed it on the string. Her fingers danced across the string and then the feathers, ruffled through them and the feathers left a pleasant sensation upon them, for it tingled slightly.</p><p>Taron greedily drank from his hose, his hair flying freely and wildly around his high forehead. It was dirty and unwashed, smelled of sweat and musk and too many days without soap, or at least water.</p><p>She had never understood – why the Dúnedain did not tie their hair behind their head in the elvish way, for they insisted on long hair and it could easily be done, but they refused. And amongst the many generation of men, she had wandled, none could ever explain why it was so and not different.</p><p>Although she had her own theory, for long ago the Númenoreans fell into cist with the Eldar and the Valar sank Númenor and henceforth they honoured the Firstborns and the helpers of Illúvatar, and they had forgiven them, for they themselves had committed treachery - but they had never forgotten. Oh no, forgiveness they had granted but not forgetfulness. After all, the Edain were a proud folk.</p><p>But admit to it, no one would.</p><p>She drew her bow a little and watched the first Orc appear below her and she drew her bow fully and sent it singing after the first creature, that broke through the line and Taron shoot the second, his bolts keen and steady and his shoots practiced. And they stank like garbage, of guts that had lain around for too long in the summer sun only it was not summer, and they were not decaying corpses.</p><p>She scrunched up her nose and Taron had seen and commented mockingly: “Did your elfling nose smell something unpleasant?” She shot another orc and ignored her malicious companion and then placed another arrow upon her bow and shoot another through the throat, so that blood gushed and left black marks upon the gravel and it sickled into the ground and poisoned the earth below.</p><p>And even though the orcs were under attack and squealed pitifully and grunted like piglets, brough to slaughter, not one considered returning into the protecting thickness of the forest, where they seemed to be placed under the guard of whatever maleficent master they marched under – if they marched for someone at all. The last orc, Taron shoot in the leg and Isilan’s grey speckled feathers peeked out the other heel.</p><p>“Taron, you think they bathe sometime?” She asked curiously and the man erupted in laughter and turned towards her. “They reek even more than you and I know for certain, that you take a bath before going home to your wife.” She added to revenge the malicious comment earlier and earned an even wider grin, that he tried to console beneath the shaking of a fist towards her. She cackled and dropped off the tree to inspect the living orc, but Halbarad had already stridden over and placed his firm, strong hand around the creature’s neck – which did not seem to speak the common tongue and Halbarad did not know the evil tongue. He killed it with a small dagger, which he cleaned on the rags, the orc wore as clothes. She would have pitied them – if they had not been orcs. A disgusted look ghosted over her features.</p><p>She placed her bow over her shoulder and began, dragging corpses out of the water, for they poisoned the fish and plants and all around. She dragged them to a cluster of orcs and then piled them on top of each other. To that pile Taron readily added his orcs, and she pulled the arrows and bolts out of the foul flesh, for Isilan to clean upon the clothing of the orcs, for they did not want to dilute too much blood in the water. Nonetheless for a moment the river flowed brown and the gravel was stained beyond repair.</p><p>“We will burn them.” Halbarad spoke and disappeared between the trees, to drag out a few dead branches and twiglets, with which he built a nice stack upon the last body. Out of a pouch on his back he took flint and stone and with some dry, fallen leaves he managed to light a fire upon the chest of the last orc. It stank horribly, of burning flesh and rotting dead and she clogged her nose with her fingers. Isilan dragged out another couple of branches and placed them on all sides, so the fire could feed on them – but it would burn nonetheless, for orc cadavers burned, even if not nicely and left behind more russet than fire and a terrible stench in the air.</p><p>“Oh Eru, you don’t even know how much I fancy a warm bed and bath.” Taron groaned, stretched his limbs and Isilan nodded agreeingly, contentment in his eyes and his mind already in Imladris.</p><p>The forest behind them rattled and she looked further up into the sky, until her eyes meet stormy grey clouds, that angrily rallied over the valley. A blackbird landed upon the shores of the Bruinen, which now flowed once more, clearly and icy. The blackbird held in its beak a small twig, full of red berries and she could not help herself but smile a little, because the twig may be small for mortal men and a Perelleth, but it was giant for the blackbird. Taron moved and away it fluttered, he had scared it away. She reckoned that she would be frightened too, if she were the size of the bird and Taron stomped upon the ground.</p><p>Halbarad took one last glance upon the heave, that smoked angrily, and then began the way down the Bruinen to the crossing and that would eventually lead over the Bruinen. “A storm is rallying – we should rush – unless Taron here wants a douche before the bath.” She clapped the tall man upon the shoulders, although she could barely reach them and it certainly did little more than tickle him a little and sniffed him once more, before she added: “He certainly needs it.”</p><p>Halbarad let sound a dirty laugh and Isilan cackled behind, but they all stayed quiet, for the promise of Imladris was alluring and daring and speech would make them slower.</p><p>And so Halbarad led the pace, down the stream to the last homely home on Middle Earth and the seat of Lord Elrond, the Perellon, of which the brother was called Elros, or Tar-Minyatur, the first of the kings of Númenor and their forefather and of which the royal line of the Kingdom of Gondor descends – but that kingdom was now kingless and the last of the line walk through the lands of Eriador and which was once, their kingdom of Arnor.</p><p>Her mother was a Númenorean, which came on the ships of Elendil, over the great sea, fleeing the wrath and ruin of the Valar, escaping the fate of their kin and setting up dwellings in Middle Earth. But that was now long past, and she had lived longer than any king and seen many more, live the span of their long lives. And now she was no more than one of the rangers of the forest, as the heir of Gondor was nothing more than a ranger himself. And so it all began and it all ended: the cycle of fall and rise repeated over again.</p><p>Nimirróth was the sister of Elendil and married an elf, Tûrdor and they both died and left Baron and her alone on the face of this earth – mother gone to a place they could not follow and father in long forgotten and foreign lands. Aglaril, the widow of Elendil, had raised them as well as she could, amongst her own deep sorrow and grief.</p><p>That was not very well, for when she died, neither Baron nor her had seen anything of the world and were no wiser than they had been, when Aglaril had taken them as her own.</p><p>Halbarad lead them around a steep slope and the sun shone its last and cut streaks upon the light roofs of Imladris and made them gloom like shimmering gold, it never failed to struck her in awe. Halbarad’s face softened and he walked faster, lead swifter down the narrow path and she knew, that Lord Elrond had noticed their presence.</p><p>Baron stood before the great halls of the elven lord and under his arm stuck a roll of parchment and a wax tablet and on his fingers, he carried ink stains and a greeting smile ghosted over his lips and called welcoming the company of four of which he called one his sister and had not seen her for yëns. Or so he felt, for he had seen Morwen only a year ago – but time mattered little to the Perellon for he had chosen immortality and refused the gift of men and had chosen the path of the Firstborn. And so time was fluctuant and ungraspable for most of it.</p><p>As glad Baron was to lay eyes upon his sister, his nose crinkled at the pungent smell, the others emitted and he had to admit, that even his sister reeked unpleasantly and understood once more why Lindir was glad, when he volunteered to greet the rangers of the woods.</p><p>Baron closed his arms around Morwen and pressed her steadily to his chest and with a glad heart, even if he dreaded giving his robes into the washing and explaining to Nimloth, why there were stains of things, he could not name, but that smelled foul, upon his robe. And his sister carried a malicious smile upon her lips, dripping off the curled corners of her mouth, and she took her hand and smeared it over his chest, orc blood still sticking to it, grimy and slimy and even fouler than her tunic. Baron raised a superior eyebrow and stilted all comment – now he would also have to apologise to Nimloth.</p><p>Her smile grew wider and she pressed him once more against her chest, or rather pressed herself against his chest and felt her heart smile in relief and chuckled for his eyebrow raise was almost as good as Master Erestor’s. And her brother scolded her with a well-placed look, before he turned to her companions and welcomed them graciously, with the elegance the elves called their own and he had integrated into his self as well.</p><p>“You should take a bath.” He then said to her and offered the same to her companions, Halbarad was asked to visit the Lord Elrond afterwards immediately and Baron scrunched his nose again at the stink and descended his arrogant grace upon the latter. Even the great elven lord did not desire to sense the wretched smell under his nose, even if he was used to orc blood staining his tunic and armour – or had been once.</p><p>She hit her brother heavily on the back and cackled when he coughed consternated, before she jogged up the stairs to the great hall and house of the Lord Elrond and made swift way along the corridors, to reach the bathing chamber first. She was particularly keen to clean her ears, for even if they were not very pointy, much dirt and grime collected in them over the course of weeks and they felt heavy and disgusting. Really, they felt as if a Troll had snorted upon them. It was not a pleasant feeling.</p><p>An Elleth, whom she did not know, brought in soaps and oils and a brush, linens and some spare clothes and then left her to be and she tore off her travel clothes, weapons and belt, the cloak, and the chest plate, all the tunics and chest binders and everything else, until she stood naked before the tub and let herself glide into the hot water, submerging underneath the surface and relished the warmth, streaming through her.</p><p>The world around her darkened a little bit more.</p><p>When she lifted her head out of the water, Morwen groped for the soap and lathered herself from head to toe, between her toes, between her legs, under hear ears and in her ears, over her stomach she spread the soap and into her butt cheeks and sighed when she dropped back into the water and felt the soap float out of her hair and stripping her body of its oils and dirt.</p><p>Her tunic had stains of which she did not know the origin, nor did she want to know, for it looked like food and yet like nothing she had eaten recently. Her bones and body ached, and she cursed her mother for a moment, for gifting her the attributes of mankind and leaving her behind, being of no race really.</p><p>Two hair washes later, the water was stained dark and she finally felt like a Perelleth again and not like the sad copy of an orc. Oil simmered on top and left her uneasy and she did not want to know how Halbarads bath looked like, for she doubted that any elf would deem this water as reusable. Morwen lifted herself out of the bathtub, where the water had grown now cold and looked outside, where the world seemed on the brink of disappearance and stormed angrily against the window.</p><p>The Elleth had brought her a blue dress, with a linen underdress and then trousers and another tunic, but she opted for the dress, for she was fed up with wearing something over her sex and was rather content with the flowing skirts, that let her skin breathe freely and relish the clean air of the valley.</p><p>Besides, as much as she was a Ranger of the North, she was also a Perelleth and every once in a while, could wear a dress – for an entire age she had done nothing else.</p><p>She opened the clog of the bath and watched the water disappear, before Morwen picked up a towel to wrap around her naked body and then one to wrap around her damp hair. She dried the droplets off her skin and then pulled on the white under gown and over it the blue dress, pulled the towel off her head and rubbed in some oil of nuts, that the Elleth had left behind and began brushing it gently, the tangles of weeks and months coming out only after quite some time and even if she had brushed her hair every day, some tangles had remained and those were now all the more perilous to brush out.</p><p>Her dark hair finally lay flat against her back and glimmered, still damp, she did not need a mirror to braid it, for the movements were so well known, that she could do them in the dark. Morwen sectioned off her hair and began her braids and then clasped the dwarven end pieces she had bought once in Dale– long ago – which held her hair in place. For as a Perelleth, it did not do that deed on its own. She was envious of Elves for that gift. But then she did not mind it greatly, and she rather fancied the silver pieces entwined in her hair for it irked the elves, who hated everything that was dwarfish – although fewer noticed than acclaimed, to hate dwarves.</p><p>She took up the towel once more and meticulously cleaned the tips of her ears, for they were full of water and she did not fancy the feeling very much. A shudder ran down her spine. The world around seamed to fall into shambles, and she watched the angry rain whip across the window and lash out. Dark it was now outside and Imladris clad in the misty clouds of the storm. She wondered if Lord Elrond had called for the storm, to wash away the blood in the Bruinen.</p><p>When she emerged, her garments and possessions in her two hands, for she did not have many, Taron waited outside, already fully clothed again, leaned against a pillar of carven stone. He escorted her to her chambers and chuckled: “Women, take long in the bathroom.” But it was not malicious and not even worth a retaliation and she tossed her clothes to the floor, placed the star broach ontop of her weapon bundle and placed that on a chest of drawers. Taron was more than 50 years old, yet he did not look a day older than 30. Halbarad was 20 years his senior and yet he did not look much older either, for the blood of the Dúnedain pulsed heavily through their veins. Isilan appeared now as well and urged her to quicken her pace, for her was hungry and greatly desired a warm meal and then a good night’s sleep. She did too, he bones heavy and knowing that she could sleep all she wanted that night.</p><p>Taron lead all of them down the galleries and into the great hall, where dinner was served upon large wooden plates, carved expertly out of the forest around Imladris, and chose a place next to a few elves, dressed in the uniform of guards, yet they were not on duty at that time, for their armour was not strapped to their bodies and their weapons leaned lightly against the wall. He grabbed a carafe of water and served all of them a bit, before chugging down his own glass and refilling it promptly. Morwen knew Sindarin well, for it had been spoken amongst the Númenoreans after leaving and abandoning Adûnaic. But that she also knew, even if it now was a dead language, spoken by few, and they became fewer every day. Westeron she had learned somewhere on the roads and with the simpler folk of the Dúnedain, learning it in the camps of her king, out of need and spite and the Quenya she knew was of the books her brother himself had read, and read to her, when he had still lived amongst men in Annúminas. She would not claim to speak any, but she read it fluently.</p><p> </p><p>Taron did know Westeron and Sindarin, for it was the language spoken between the rangers of the North all too often. Quenya he did not understand, for he was of men and had no use in acquiring it. Besides, it was difficult to learn and he was not gifted with the grace of learning a language easily – nor did he have the time, that Morwen had had. Therefore, he did not mind gravely and was rather occupied with serving himself a large piece of pork roast, that looked more than delicious upon its bed of roasted vegetables and was well seasoned and a pleasure on his stomach. Halbarad was missing and soon he discovered his commander at table with Lord Elrond, and he was eves struck at the marvellous perfection and beauty of all around him, for the male elves were beautiful and the females even more so, but the Lord Elrond carried in himself a grace and such wisdom that it almost pained Taron to look upon him for too long.</p><p>Isilan was not so easily impressed and picked out a few pieces of freshly baked bread and a vegetable stew for his dinner – having seen more elves than Taron in his lifetime, he was very skilled at ignoring the gloominess of these creatures and their immortal arrogance. It was saddening, for they were beautiful and wise, and they carried great love and affection in their hearts, but they were also arrogant and vain and cared little for the world apart from what suited them comfortably. Given immortality, they rested upon it without doing.</p><p>Most plates were garnished with vegetarian dishes, for many elves chose to eat no meat or very little of it. Isilan did not mind that at all and he remembered that the stew had been very much to his liking, the last time he had visited the halls of Elrond. Taron grunted displeased and muttered something about “Treating foot soldiers” and “Arrogance of the Captain” and Isilan snorted dismissively and ceased from looking up, saying: “A barbarian like you, I would not welcome on my table either.” And Taron chuckled because he had sat at Isilan’s table more than once over the course of the years. “You have a broomstick up your ass, Isilan.” Taron bantered and Isilan shrugged carelessly.</p><p>Morwen shook her head at the quarrel of the two and chuckled, before watching the elves around her and it was astonishing for her and a feast to her eyes if not to her ears.</p><p>For the elves were fair and beautiful and yet arrogant and immortally prideful.</p><p>She asked a guard next to her, if he may pass her the roasted meat and loaded her plate with some, for it smelt deliciously and she was glad and took great joy from inhaling the vapours for a moment, before placing the first bite in her mouth with a silver fork. Taron had goggled them like always and then took them up to eat cautiously and Isilan had dismissed them almost instantly.</p><p>Baron installed himself next to his sister, the scrolls had disappeared, but the ink stains had not and he stowed away in his robes a wax tablet before stealing a bite from his sister’s plate. Morwen protested little, for there was plenty of food and she did not mind greatly. He peered into Isilan’s bowl and grabbed of the same and ate happily, seated quietly next to the rangers.</p><p>“When will you have to leave again?” He asked and she shrugged, cutting away another piece of her meat. The carrots melted away on her tongue and were lathered in butter and she was glad for it, because she could use the few extra pounds in winter. It would be cold, she guessed, winter was only creeping up now, late for this time of year. And with that it promised to be long and cold, even in spring.</p><p>“I don’t know, Halbarad is uneasy and the forest too quiet – he is speaking to Lord Elrond but has not said anything yet. There were orc attacks on the villages around the Shire, yet they were out of the ordinary, calm almost and civil, he tried hunting down the orcs, but they were too many and they always seemed to disappear from his sight and tracks, as if some evil master had placed a cloak of mist upon them. We brought them down above the crossing of the Bruinen”. Morwen furrowed her brows and watched her brother, who seemed equally as discombobulated by her description of events, that had passed in the last month, ever since her departure from the boarders of the Shire. She glanced upon the great table, where Halbarad motioned wildly and the elven lord listened, the blond Ellon by his side, Lord Glorfindel, listened equally as interested. Worry clouded his face and Baron followed his sister’s eyes. “Something is in the air.” He said and then added: “Something dark has passed into the lands and lingers on the boarders of Imladris, they are uneasy.”</p><p>Baron outstretched his hand to grasp for a piece of bread and Morwen asked herself why he would need that, for he already had stew and in the stew were plenty of grains and one did not eat grain and grain together. The dark haired Perellon kept silent, although he noticed the stares of his sibling and could not stop a slow smile creep upon his well-formed lips. “You like to stick your head into business that is not yours.” He mocked upon her searching eyes and Morwen shook her head, her braids flying around her head and the silver beads clinking together joyfully. Baron preferred a simple leather band for his braid, for he carried only one and found the process of braiding painstaking.</p><p>“Explain though.” She demanded and he smirked only wider, his robes were changed, from when she had meet him at first and now were darker than before. “Because it irks you.” He offered up and Morwen snorted for he had wasted her time and it had all been her fault.</p><p>But then the concept of wasting time was something very mortal and elves could not waste their time at all, because they had all the time in the world and beyond that. As much as Baron loved numbers and quite literally devoured them, he also still had a little bit of mischief glooming behind those stern ears and loved nothing more than irking Morwen to the grave – not literally this time. The Perelleth often found, that he seemed to think it his duty – as older brother.</p><p>Halbarad finished his discourse with the Eleven lords and pushed back his chair, to bow stiffly and unpractised, before making his way towards the three rangers, he had commanded in the last few weeks. He wore a tunic of rust and green trousers and seemed to have enjoyed the bath just as much as his companions.</p><p>The orc attacks worried him gravely, and they had worried Lord Elrond just as much, for he could not pinpoint them and could not assign them a reason. But the days were about the be merrier – or at least lighter. Lord Elrond had spoken of their chieftain arriving and the news had gladdened Halbarad’s heart, for it had crouched painfully in unknowingness.</p><p>Maybe Aragorn knew more, for he had walked the lands of Bree – alone as he always did. He did not like much company, at least not from his rangers, but for a while he had travelled the lands with an elf, secretly and little was known of those adventures. He rarely spoke of these days. Why, Halbarad did not know, or could not guess.</p><p>Halbarad felt Morwen’s asking eyes upon him and noticed her changed figure, for now she was cleansed and just as eery as any immortal – if less arrogant and less beautiful – but still a sight for sore eyes and if he had been younger and had not known Morwen for his entire life, he would have gladly courted her.</p><p>“Aragorn is near the boarders of Imladris, we will wait here for him, I wish for him to know of the pack. Gandalf the Grey has arrived yesterday, and he seems deeply troubled, yet he will not speak to the Lord about it and wishes to wait until Aragorn has arrived.” He furrowed his bushy brows, that were fit of an owl and not a man, yet they had been bestowed upon him. He looked as if he still wanted to speak of something, but he did not and so Morwen dropped her head back to her plate, finished her meal silently, all whilst goggling the elves around her and marvelling at their beauty and perfection.</p><p>Just because she called the gift of elven blood her own, did not mean she did not greatly appreciate the beauty around her. After weeks in the woods, she was taken aback.</p><p>The men were tired, even more tired than her, she could tell, and they were not up for chats tonight and so she excused herself soon after she had finished and followed Baron to a small hall, inside the home of Elrond, where one side was open and railed and the storm was rippling through and yet it was beautiful.</p><p>And the fine mist of the rain storm, that entered the open room, sprayed upon her face and wettened it and she felt as if she had cried slow tears. It rippled through her hair and drenched her clothes and yet she did not mind, whereas Baron kept his fair distance to the open side of the room and lingered in the shadows.</p><p>“Morwen.” He spoke and she smiled, for it meant dark lady and she wondered if it had been the name that had given her, her allure or the allure had given her the name. Which came first, the Vastness or Illuvatar? For Illuvatar created out of the Vastness but without the Vastness, he could have not created. She let her brother’s name pearl over her thin lips and even deeper for it meant to go away, and he had left behind their home after Aglaril’s death. He had lit a fire in the chimney and settled upon a wooden chair and stared pensively into the flames. Morwen tore herself away from the wind and the weather and joined him.</p><p>Her name was fitting for she liked the shadows and depths of trees, the darkness of the sea and the grimness of the clouds, the shade of mountain side and the dark gloominess of mountain caves. She loved the homeliness that darkness leant, for one could not look far and therefore was content with what existed inside the confinement. But then she also liked light and the stars that penetrated the dark for they glistened silver under the night sky and illuminated what did not want to be seen.</p><p>“I will leave these shores with the next ship.” He spoke and Morwen felt her heart clench. “Why?” She asked and warmed her hands upon the flames.</p><p>“It is the eve of Elven kind in Middle Earth and many have left these shores and soon Imladris will be deserted and Lord Elrond will leave these shores – there is nothing left for me here.” He spoke with a soft voice, warming as the fire and yet his words were not for they made Morwen’s heart cool and dread and filled it with fear. She looked upon her blue dress and watched the water speckles disappear and evaporate away under the heat and a long time passed until she spoke again.</p><p>“I can not follow you.”</p><p>Baron closed his silver eyes and sighed deeply, as if the load of an entire world rested upon his shoulders and he was sad for he knew of the graveness of his decision and yet the sea had called him for many yën and he had not left, to wait upon Morwen’s decision – yet it had never come.  </p><p>“I have not made my choice yet.” And Baron shivered at her small voice and opened his eyes again and beheld a shrunken Morwen, which leaned into her own chair and stared at the fire once more and did not speak for she was thinking, and a great deal more of it she would have to do, before making her decision.</p><p>Droplets dripped onto the marbled floors and she felt hollow, for she did not know. She had spent an entire age without finding the answer and she knew she would not find it now – not today nor tomorrow. For what should she chose? There lay the gift of men before her and then the gift of the Firstborn and both were equal to one another. And for yëns she was now stuck between two worlds – one in which she lived and one she visited every once in a while.</p><p>Baron's hand seized hers and he linked them, to rest them between the two chairs and the shadow fell on the tiles behind them. For a moment they both felt like little children again, resting before a fire in Annúminas and holding hands, staying up until bedtime had long passed and Aglaril would come fuming down the corridor and scold them heavily. Baron spoke gently, as if he feared she would break apart if his speech were any harder: “Remember the night we spent before chimneys, because I was so terrified of the thunderstorms? Aglaril was furious when she found us in the morning with burned hair because we had sat too closely to the fire.” He chuckled smally and upon Morwen’s lips a tiny smile tilted her mouth and made her cheeks lift a little even if it was not much. “Mhhhmmm and then she cut away the burned chunks because it smelled so horribly.”</p><p>He pressed her fingers harder and then murmured into the flames: “I know you can not follow me – not now at least, but one day – when you have chosen, you can still follow me.” Morwen felt great despair fall upon her heart. “And if I chose the gift of men?” For she knew that she could not follow him then and would die without him here in Middle Earth and never see him again and that pained her greatly for she remembered when he had left and he had left behind a hole and then he had only moved away a few kingdoms. But once in Valinor there was no way back – not that he would want to come back anyways. Baron chuckled.</p><p>“Then I finally got rid of you.” He mocked lovingly and chanted back the smile upon Morwen’s face and they both thought that an entire Age did not change the way one spoke with their siblings.</p>
<hr/><p>Author's notes: </p><p>Peredhel - Half Elf<br/>
Perellon - Half Elf male, not sure if this is correct but a male elf is called an Ellon in Sindarin, so it made sort of sense to trascript that to Half Elf as well<br/>
Perelleth - Half Elf female</p><p>Imladris - Rivendell in the elven tongue</p><p>My inspiration for this story comes to a great part from Azalais from Fanfiction.net. She wrote Amid the Powers and Chances of the world, in my opinion the best Legolas fanfiction there is. From her I have derived the title Dunedaneth and her deptiction of the woodland elves, that are very much tied to trees and nature. If you wish to read the story, I have linked it below.</p><p>The link to the story: https://m.fanfiction.net/s/6582878/1/</p><p>English is not my first language, I try write everything as correctly as possible, but I very well make mistakes - loads of them. So if you find one, I would be glad if you could leave me a comment with the correction. Also I am only a teenager so please keep that in mind. I am trying myself at writing a coherent story, but if you look at my earlier works, you may notice that I have an affinity for Mary Sue characters that are internally tormented and often make little sense. I am trying better here with Morwen and all the other characters, but it is difficult to write from an adult perspective, when I myself am not there yet. If they sometimes seem a bit juvenile, that is entirely my fault and I am sorry for that.</p><p>I put quite a bit of research into this story, especially concering the Numenoreans. Nonetheless, I have not read every text that concerns them, and therefore I am not all-knowing. If you find some incorrectness in their story, I would be glad for a pinpoint in the right direction.</p><p>Most of the story will follow the books, but there is some immaculate dialogue, that takes place in the movies and I can simply not bring myself to ignore it. Therefore I will sometimes stray from the books and rather follow the movies. Also I really enjoy some of the character depictions. I find many of the side characters underdescribed in the books and better interpreted in the movies. But I suppose that is also the nature of movies, you can’t get away with no dialogue and just long shoots of nature.</p><p>I hope you enjoy nonetheless. Even when it might be a little chaotic at times.<br/>
In the beginning</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Taron’s heavy mitt thundered onto Morwen’s shoulder and if she had not possessed partially elven bones, she was sure, that he would have smashed her shoulder to mush. She gawked and hissed at him, and then caught her breath again, pressed out of her lungs by the hit. For a moment she contemplated, if a sharp gash in the stomach would make her feel any better, but then decided against it, for Taron in the end was very, very mortal and it would hurt him more than it would satisfy her. She patted herself on the shoulder mentally and wished to wipe Taron’s ridiculing grin out of the visage he sported. Isilan hit him heavy against the back of his head and reprimanded him with a sly grin and morbid satisfaction. Morwen’s ears rang from the hit, even if she had not been on the receiving end. Halbarad came charging around the corner, heavily strutting, his hand on the haft of his sword.</p><p>Morwen wondered why he carried it, for it was Imladris and he did not need it. Besides, it was impolite to carry a weapon in the house where one was a guest. Borderline rude even. But then they were rangers and had very little sense for manners and a dripping grin sprawled across her slim lips.</p><p>“Aragorn is here – with him three Halflings and the Lord Glorfindel.” He gushed past and the three followed on his heels, although one could see the little machinery working behind Isilan’s silent eyes and Taron and Morwen exchanging long glances. But neither of them knew an answer to the riddle, that had posed itself in the manner of the Halflings. What they did out of the Shire, neither of them could guess.</p><p>Before the halls of the Lord Elrond and his private study, Elrohir and Elladan were posted, their chins held high and dressed in short tunics. Elrohir was still halfway strapped into a suit of armour. They greeted their adoptive brother with a short nod, but even Taron could sense the agitation in the tendons of their body, readily waiting to snap.</p><p>Lord Glorfindel leaned against a wall adjacent and seemed much more relaxed, even if there was a dark cloud shadowing over his fair brows. Morwen looked at him a little too long and a little too interested, for she noticed once more the elegance and completion of his proud face and the gleaming hair, dazzling in the light of the morning sun golden. She had looked at him many times before and knew all these things – but she never grew weary of them. All she looked upon these days were the spent faces of men, and men, and more men and every once in a while, women. When she walked amongst the elves of Imladris, she could not help but find their etherical beauty appealing.</p><p>Lord Glorfindel looked at her sternly, tilting his head and she noticed her open staring, and quickly hid behind Taron’s broad shoulders. She did not know him very well – nor did she know any of the elves very well, for they had often looked down on her companions and she did not greatly appreciate the arrogance of them – of any male really. For especially with men, it was that they turned arrogant and sour around females.</p><p>Elrohir’s teeth were almost baren, he crushed them and clenched his jaw, staring at Morwen and yet looking through her – his mind occupied with something else, far away from the present. Elrohir carried a square jaw and high cheekbones, dark hair, that was a smooth as a well waxed bowstring and dark eyes. Well, she did not know if it was as smooth as a waxed bowstring, but it most certainly looked like it and she wished to bury her sore hands in it – sore for she missed the softness of elven hair and had not touched any in a long while. Baron did not greatly appreciate it. The golden chest plate strapped to him, moved under his shallow breaths, which spoke of his agitation.</p><p>Isilan bent over and whispered into her ears: “Did you see the elf’s look?” His eyes sparkling with amusement and wonder. “The other has been looking at Halbarad as if he were a forbidden fruit and he wanted to have it.” He mocked further and Morwen bit onto her tongue for she could see the tips of ears vibrating, listening to the conversation – a small and dim smile spread over Lord Glorfindel’s lips and yet, if one had not spent a while in the presence of elves or was one themself, they would not notice.</p><p>Isilan sank to the floor and comfortably folded his legs, pointing to the spot next to him, for the dark haired Perelleth to take up the space. She accepted and skittered down the walls and leaned her head against the stone wall – relishing the cooling effect of the rocks. Taron claimed the spot besides her and carried a wide grin on his face, before muttering into Morwen’s ear, but so that Isilan could hear – and all the elves for that matter: “Maybe he is insulted by your gristly face, Mor.” Morwen shook her head and nudged him in the shoulder: “Shut up Ranger.”</p><p>For she did not need to be pretty or handsome or beautiful – only carry stories in her mind and orcs across the brink of death – preferably. And then she needed to stagger after Halbarad after a rough night in some shabby tavern and make it out in one piece, without falling over her cloak, or boots, or simply her own feet. The mostly dim lighting and shouting of the host, did not help in any sort of manner. Sometimes a dispute over cattle had to be rectified and solved, but none of the named activities required being beautiful in any way. Indeed, long silken robes and carefully groomed nails would rather be inefficient and hindering – anyways the men barely had time to shave their faces every year or so. She stretched out her tongue at Taron.</p><p>Isilan had sunken further against the wall – in a manner he would often adapt in the wild, or places where he did not want to be seen and now leaned against the wall, stripped of all elegance and pride. Frankly put, he looked like a ragged beggar.</p><p>Glorfindel’s face almost gloomed, Morwen remarked – it was so beautiful and yet eternal, not at all ephemeral like the beauty of men. When she had been little – and he had visited the kingdom of Arnor, Morwen and Baron had followed him through the castle corridors of Annúminas, hiding behind pillars and wall carpets, following on quiet feet – or so they thought. Now she knew better, now she knew that he had probably heard every little whisper, they had uttered and every little sound, they had made. But back then he had obviously tolerated two ratchet little children, following on his heels.</p><p>Baron had arrived soundlessly, his subtle movements unhearable – something he had picked up in Imladris over the course of time, for in the kingdom of Arnor, he had never had to be quiet – especially not with the weak hearing of the men and woman. Although the Dúnedain and Númenoreans heard a lot better than any other race of men –  they never heard as good as elves.</p><p>He settled next to Elrohir and mustered Morwen, who had sunk against the wall equally as inelegantly and uneleven like, with a subtle hint of reproach and muttered quietly but audibly: “You have spent too much time in the company of men.” For he found that her choice could not come easier if all she ever saw, was one side of the glistening coin – especially not the scratched and dented side, that belonged to mankind. But scratched and dented, ragged and filthy, also had their alluring properties and sometimes, a little bit of dirt and a little bit of ratchetness represented the world more as it was, and not as it was wanted to be – for the world outside of the elven kingdoms did not glisten and it did not shine, it was not polished and it was not fine, but it was honest and true and noble in its own spirits.</p><p>But Baron did not understand and Morwen did not ask of him to understand. He had chosen shortly after he had been born – to be one of the Eldar and not one of Men and refused the gift of mankind. Therefore, for him, it was easy – his heart residing amongst the realms of the Eldar and eventually in the holy land of Aman.</p><p>Sometimes though, when Morwen and Baron were alone and sat under the flicker of candle lights at night and shared old and ancient memories – old as the age and far more distant, she could glimpse a part of who he had been, before making his decision. Of who he had been whilst standing in the middle of the way and not yet choosing his path – when they had stood on the dirt road together, hand in hand. It was a dirt road and no beautifully set pavement, not until the path split.</p><p>Now – all too often for Morwen’s liking, he was quite plain and simply an elf – gracious and elegant, yet she was glad that he carried only a little arrogance and haughtiness in his heart. Most he had banished in the sea – or somewhere else, out of reach. Sometimes he was a little bit less gracious when he was drunk – but even then, when his mind was clouded with the intoxicating feeling of the liquor, he was an Ellon. Well, Morwen had to admit, she had not seen many elves senselessly smashed. It simply did not seem to fit very well – at least not with the elves of Imladris so to speak. She wondered what other elven folk was like.</p><p>“I would rather blame that on the fact that she sits in the bushes with us rowdy men for months on end, and not our mortal souls.” Isilan spoke and tilted his head, looking ragged at Baron. Morwen admired Isilan often, for he did not seem to care about the sheer and utter superiority, elves claimed over men in every aspect of life. He did not care for the lashing tongues of the fair folk, and the mockery of its nobility often displayed. He was unapologetic for being mortal and flawed to the brim. Not that elves were any less flawed, perfect in body, yet also dearly imperfect in soul at times. Morwen mustered him with admiration sideways.</p><p>The Lord Glorfindel was highly amused by the bickering of people for he had spent many years amongst them – in camps and upon battle fields and then later, he often wandered amongst mankind in Arnor and relished the beauty of its pointy and sharp mountains and wide plains. “Truly spoken, ranger, for I remember the days where my mate scolded me after long years on the battlefield for my foul tongue.” He chuckled and if he had possessed a beard, Morwen would have been certain that he would have chuckled into it. Elladan watched the advisor of his father rather bewildered but chose to say little.</p><p>Glorfindel did not speak a great deal about his mate, for she was long gone and had sailed to Valinor and the undying lands. The dark-haired Perellon was surprised, that he seemed to make such an exemption for the Dúnedain, sitting scattered across the floor like a bundle of rags. Even the half elf amongst them had adopted the lousy posture they often sported. Morwen he knew – of past battles and because she was Baron’s sister, therefore loosely related to Elladan – she descended from the old line of Númenoran kings – many generations prior to Estel. Mortal and Immortal scarsly mingled and it was still not completely understood to neither Elladan nor his father, why Tûrdor and Nimirróth had chosen to sire children, or even be bound together – Eru had extended the grace of choosing mortality and immortality only to Lúthien and her descendants later. Tûrdor must have known – that he would be separated from his mate forever and had not been able to foresee, what would become of his children.</p><p>Elladan did not understand – but then he needn’t too, and so he chose to rather think about Estel, who was still conversing with his father, although he could not hear any whispers seep through the oaken door – not a single hint.</p><p>Estel – his brother by choice. Oh, the man was insufferable and yet so dear to Elladan’s heart and one day he would take away what was dearest to Elladan – he would take away Arwen and make her chose, what Elladan had refused and he would never lay eyes upon her again. At first, he had been bitter and harsh, but then he had understood – and he had understood, that it was not his choice to make.</p><p>A very torn apart looking Aragorn charged out of the study and silenced the opening mouth of Halbarad with a wink of his hand. Then he strode down the corridor, leaving the little assembly of people behind. Halbarad halted for a moment and then decided to run after his chieftain and follow him. Where Halbarad went, Isilan, Taron and Morwen went and they left behind the group of elves, of which Glorfindel entered firstly.</p><p>But when Aragorn stopped and Halbarad stood next to him and they had their heads stuck together, it was clear that the others were not invited to the conversation. Isilan watched them hawkeyed before saying: “Come, let’s go train, they will let us have part at their thoughts soon enough.” He clapped Taron on the back and took Morwen by the sleeve, her pointy ears already eavesdropping on the conversation and swiftly he tore them away, down the long corridors to their chambers – not without strolling down the wrong one more than once.</p><p>In her room, Morwen reached for her armour and mustered it disgusted, for it was still covered in grime and dirt and decided, that before placing it upon herself, she needed to wipe it thoroughly down with some soapwort. She let it sink against the floor again and opted for her armguards, which she swiftly rubbed the dirt off with the edge of her tunic, even if that only smeared around most of it and helped scarcely little. But it was better than before. She took the edge of her drying linen towel, of the bath the night before, and wiped them down once more, before placing them on her arms and tying them with teeth and swift fingers.</p><p>Taron did not bother picking up his suit of leather gear and simply grabbed his sword, which was meticulously clean, for he washed it in every stream he could find and then tossed his belted quiver of bolts over his shoulder and grasped for his crossbow.</p><p>Isilan did not fancy swords very much and preferred broad axes and a small bows, normally used on horses and he had once seen it on his many journeys to the South on a Haradrim – ever since he possessed that bow, together with sets of black feather arrows – or whatever colour he could get his hands upon. The bow was strung with the tendon of an Oliphant, smooth and very sturdy and he never had had to replace the string.</p><p>Morwen picked her bow from under her bed and the black quiver she wore, with the star of Elendil burnt into the leather skin, otherwise it was bare. She greatly favoured it over any other weapon, except twin daggers, which she had learned to use a long time ago and they never left her side as they were simple held and made of clean and clear steel, the handles wrapped in black leather and the shape moulded to the back of her arms, so she could hold them backwards and the blunt edge could rest against the bone of her forearm. She stepped out of her room and took the two men with her and together they sauntered over to the training grounds, which were located against the walls of the valley, behind the feasting hall, covered in wood chips.</p><p>Taron grinned, because he was glad that there was not only bare stone or overtreaded dirt – it would be softer to his bones and leave them uncrushed. Ten years now he had strolled through the lands of the old Arnor with Morwen, taken her home to his wife and children and trusted her with his life and yet – he was just as ephemeral as any other companion she had had. He loved her dearly, cared for her deeply, in a way she was to him, his mate – friendship mate so to speak of, for he had Noora and her he loved with all his hearth. What was she doing right now? He wondered and let himself sink into a little bit of daydreaming. They were not far from here, a two day’s march and a day’s ride, and if they would stay longer in Imladris he may find time to visit them. But over the years in the plains and fields of Arnor, he had learnt one thing better than any other – never expect anything, nothing is granted and with the whistle of the wind, everything might change.</p><p>He overlooked the elves mingling and fighting, some scattered along a line, shooting upon targets of straw, with red dots painted onto them – impossibly small and yet a bundle of arrows stuck in each. Sometimes he wished to have the same amount of time as the elves – to perfect his skills, for it was easier then, to stay alive and less easy to be killed. Not that they truly ever died, it was a concept Taron found hard to understand, for he had seen more than one elf fall in battle or skirmish. Had seen the red blood flow out of their veins and their usually beautiful and lively face turn grey and ashy and life fade out of them – to Taron they had died and yet, they had not, for they would reappear. Somewhere out of reach for any but themselves.</p><p>He often wondered what fate would be bestowed upon Morwen – if she was ever slain in battle. Would the choice be made for her? She was rather human compared to most elves – even in comparison to the half elves. Oh, he remembered, once they had wandered under the glistening sun over the weather tops and her skin had burned red, like crayfish and had deeply bruised. She hadn’t been able to laugh for many days, without painfully squeezing her eyes together and cursing upon Taron’s lashing tongue. He had enjoyed her torment greatly and still thought quite fondly of it. But real elves did not get sunburns.</p><p>Morwen stepped towards the broad man and he could see the diabolic smile embellishing her lips, that spoke of much sweat and blood and little enjoyment. “Taron?” She asked and he took a few steps back, shaking his head laughing and refusing. “Oh no, Mor I am definitely not getting myself beat up by you.” He said and skittered over to Isilan, who had claimed a target amongst the elves, as confident and nonchalant as always.</p><p>Mor let her eyes slitter over the figures, clad in leather and steel, tunics of all sorts of colours and yet they all were of the same blue and brown colour scheme. It had probably been Lindir’s idea and his eye for fashion and colour. The steward of the house of Elrond took great pride in his subordinates’ clothes. She looked back at Isilan and saw his arrows straying a great deal in comparison to the soldiers around him – the painful reality was, that Isilan was a good shoot, not the best and not excellent, but good and yet he had little to fathom against the sheer power of any elf archer. It was especially sore because the preferred weapon of the Númenoreans had been the bow, carved out of steel and shoot with long, black feathered arrows. Not that was now widely known – but Mor knew. And that was enough. Now, little was left of the glory, that had once been behold to Númenor.</p><p>She had not always been a ranger of the woods – once upon a time, it seemed ages ago and yet it was not, she had sat at the table of Elendil, king of Arnor and Gondor and then at the table of Anarion and Valandil, after him, and many more kings afterwards. She had carried clothes of silk and velvet, finest wool, and softest cotton, made of the whitest linen in all Arnor. She had carried scrolls under her arms and books, quills, and parchment. She knew how to stitch and sow and carried on her lap needle and silk thread, to create pictures of long forgotten days or days that may still come.</p><p>That was long ago.</p><p>Did she miss it? She missed the baths and the fine clothes – sometimes, but then she had never felt more alive than now. Court demanded and required; on the fields she could take without giving. She was the one to demand and require, to want and to take and never hand anything back. Well one day she would, that much she knew. But once upon a time, she had perceived court as source of bliss and peace, had loved it ardently – still did, but she knew that, what once was, was now lost forever. Morwen shook her broad face and let loose of the memories and was greeted by the sight of a younger elf. He bowed and spoke with melodic voice, that was so accustom to the elves of Imladris: “Train with me?”</p><p>She had not replaced her blue dress, still wore the skirts, but she did not need to anyways. Gladly she accepted the request and stepped with the dark-haired elf onto the wooden chips, her bow and arrows she had rested at the edge of a small bench.</p><p>The elf fought brave and fair and Morwen did not, her strokes immoral and condemned by any sort of sword master – or in her case master of the daggers. But little did the Perelleth care, for Orcs did not fight fair and more often than not, it was simply easiest. The elf quickly picked up upon her movements and dropped his fair posture.</p><p>…</p><p>Halbarads long strides tumbled next to Aragorn’s hastily and Isilan jumped off his windowsill, placing the stone he had used to sharpen his axe into a small pouch by his belt. Morwen had rested beside and cleaned her leather chest plate with some soapwort and then waxed and polished it, rubbing all the grime and dirt off. Nonetheless the straps were old and the leather stained, partially scratched and beaten up. Aragorn carried a clean tunic, made of rusty brown wool, and had washed himself. His visage carried a terribly tragic masque and the rangers jumped from their places to greet their chieftain with a long-desired hug and some patting on the shoulders. Morwen chuckled when she smelled the chieftain and jabbed to Taron: “Tar he smells better than you.”</p><p>He friend grinned dirtily, raised an eyebrow and patted her face with his hands, smearing the fat he had used to revarnish the handle of his sword all over her cheeks. She hissed and gripped for his tunic to wipe it off and Aragorn reminded them to stay serious. He shook his head nonetheless with an amused grin forming on his lips, and said: “Sometimes Mor, I am really astonished that you are a grownup Perelleth and have wandled the face of the earth for more than an age.” He had left a few droplets of water on her shoulder, for his hair had still been wet and the tangled curls hung unruly around his slender face. Halbarad lent against a stone pillar and had folded his arms before his chest. He was grim and worried, sinister thoughts clouded his mind. Aragorn settled on the stairs besides them, his elbows resting on his knees comfortably and his eyes scanning from one to the other.</p><p>“Elrond has called a council.” He finally said and Morwen furrowed her brows. What did that matter to the Dúnedain – or rather to the rangers. She doubted that she would be invited, nor Isilan or Taron, for that matter. Much more was she deeply troubled by the pack of orcs and the shadows, that lingered around Imladris – dark riders that had been spotted around the Shire and in the forests of Bree land and that had disappeared again after a while. Leaving behind nothing but whisps of whispers and words and trampled paths.</p><p>“He spoke of dark powers raising again – Dol Guldur and the witch king of Angmar is on the lose again – or was, he was carried down the Bruinen not many days ago and his form was shattered. The guards later found a black and shredded cloak as all that was left of them. You have seen many scouts rummaging through Rhudaur and Bree, even going as far as the boarders of the Shire.” He said deeply troubled and his gaze wandered to shores neither of them could reach.</p><p>“It is nothing new, scouts have wandled through Rhudaur ever since it fell in 1975 – well much sooner than that even, before the last king fell.” Morwen objected and tilted her head to glance at her Chieftain. With its adjacent stand to the Misty Mountains and the Kingdom of Angmar as neighbour, it had been no surprise. Elendil had chosen poor to place his kingdom, one besides the witch king and the other besides Sauron himself. But he had not known that then, and therefore Morwen could forgive him.</p><p>Halbarad nodded: “Even when I was a small lad, they came.” Ever since it had fallen, the scouts of the witch king wandled the wasted lands of that forsaken country, burning and stealing away what little of the old kingdom was still left. Morwen’s gaze grew distant and for a moment she saw before her eyes the distant plains of the green lands, the streams and luscious grass and the horses, that rode through it, small and almost pony like. She had firstly set foot onto the lands of Rhudaur when it had still been a part of Arnor. Eldacar, the fourth king of Arnor had spent many of his summers in the wide plains.</p><p>“His henchmen grow more courageous by the day. A day after you left to hunt after those orcs, black riders entered the Shire.” Aragorn spoke darkly and Halbarad’s sinister face deepened only more and left behind deep welts of sorrow on his skin. Taron opened his mouth and gasped, but Aragorn held out his hand and motioned him to not speak. He rubbed his temple, the darkness vanishing for a weariness to take its place. “It is not your fault, even if I cannot sanctify your choices – especially not yours Halbarad. But what was done has been done and the Past is unchangeable. Nonetheless, it was negligent.” He paused and collected himself. “Listen carefully. Mithrandir sent me to meet four Hobbits in Bree – to escort them to Imladris. One of the Halflings possesses something of greatest importance to Middle Earth. But what it is, I cannot tell you, my friends. Forgive me.</p><p>Nonetheless, Elrond is weary and worried, and his gaze wanders south all too often. He fears the fate that is bestowed upon Middle Earth. He fears it may turn to the worst and that Sauron in the South will prevail once more.” Morwen sucked in all air and a cold shower of fear tingled over her back and down her dress, clawing its way into the nerves of the Perelleth. She had seen it – some of it, only a little, less than most and yet it had been terrible. “I left a message in Bree for Mithrandir and Lair. He will patrol the Shire, Nienna is with him – but Isilan will go back, nonetheless. Forgive me, my friend, but the little Halflings need protection. Mor, Taron and Halbarad stay here – I am attending the council and whatever Elrond decides shall prevail your paths. Be wary and ready, be prepared. Dark times are growing even darker.” He spoke and another shadow swished across his noble face.</p><p>“On Amon Sûl we encountered a Ringwraith. Mor, do you know if any have ever showed their wretched faces so far in the West?” Morwen fixed her grey eyes upon her chieftain and mustered him, digging deep in her memories. Then, slowly she shook her head. “Not since the wars around Arnor – maybe then, but I cannot tell you for certain when, only that they were seen there. There is little to find there nowadays anyways, but you know that.” And she could not pinpoint why the wraith would manifest on the top of Amon Sûl, long abandoned and the Palantír vanished in the sea together with Arvedui. Halbarad cracked his knuckles and sent a chill through Taron, who hated the sound with all his heart and stared at Halbarad grimly.</p><p>“Should we know what worries you chief?” Isilan asked calmly, leaned against a wall, his boots removed, and his socks draped over the floor, the thick skin of his feet cracked and yellow. His toenails had seen better times too and Morwen knew, that her feet did not look any better. But cornea was better than soft feet. She had learnt it the hard way. Her feet only used to silken slippers at court and soft riding boots. Her first three weeks in the sturdy boots of soldiers had given her more blisters than she could count – even though, luckily, no infection.</p><p>Taron angled for the shoe and sniffed it, before turning green and retching, tossing it as far away as possible and mustering Isilan with disgusted face. He probably had some fungus growing on his toes. Morwen grinned from ear to ear at the show.</p><p>The chief muttered under his breath and then said: “Halbarad, Taron, Isilan, I will see you at dinner.” Before he motioned Morwen to follow him and leave behind the group of men.</p><p>He wandled down the path to the gardens, that splayed beneath on terrasses, all the way to the Bruinen, brimming with life. And she did not mean elvish life, but rather plants and small animals, tumbling around the slopes and pathways, occasionally nudging an elf in the side. Why Aragorn had not taken Halbarad with him, Mor could not tell, although it made her wonder. After all the stocky, dark-haired man was Aragorn’s second in command. His feet carried him to an old oak, towering in the middle of a patch of luscious gras.</p><p>“When I was little, I spent much time here.” He said silently and sunk against it, his back leaning against the rough bark. Mor settled down before him and crossed her legs, her fingers burying in the gras and stroking through it, relishing the softness of it. Aragorn mustered her with dark eyes. “How much do you remember of the last alliance and the battle of the second age?” He asked and Morwen blew the air out of lungs and looked to the sky.</p><p>Why ask her? Aragorn was the foster son of Lord Elrond, he led more than one battalion into the battle himself. Nonetheless she dug deep inside her mind, skimming through tales and stories from the age past and the age before – but she knew little of the last Allegiance, that went beyond common knowledge amongst the elves.</p><p>“Not much, Aragorn. I was but a little girl – locked away in Annúminas with my mother. I can barely remember anything except for the sorrows of my mother and the wait for the men to come home. I know of the heroism of Gil-Galad and Elendil, the deed and curse of Isildur. The stories of the witch king who fled to Angmar for many centuries afterwards. But neither my mother spoke of it – or knew much of it, for matter of fact, and when the men came home and she died, Aglaril was deeply grieved and did not fancy telling any stories about the battle either. Little do I know of the world outside of Annúminas these days.“</p><p>Morwen lowered her eyes to the gras and watched her fingers kemp through it, untangling the long holms, as if they were hair, as if the gras were her lover.</p><p>
  <em>Three Rings for the Elven-kings under the sky,</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Seven for the Dwarf-lords in their halls of stone,</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Nine for Mortal Men doomed to die,</em>
</p><p>
  <em>One for the Dark Lord on his dark throne</em>
</p><p>
  <em>In the Land of Mordor where the Shadows lie.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>One Ring to rule them all, One Ring to find them,</em>
</p><p>
  <em>One Ring to bring them all, and in the darkness bind them,</em>
</p><p>
  <em>In the Land of Mordor where the Shadows lie.</em>
</p><p>He spoke clearly and watched Morwen, prying for her reaction. It was an old poem of the elves, well known and yet few knew what it meant truly. She chuckled. She had heard it once or twice at the table of Valandil, for the king of Arnor fancied bards over any other entertainment, to sweeten the long winters in Annúminas and keep the quarrels of court to a bare minimum. Most of the bards fancied a winter in the halls of the king, for it meant a warm and comfortable bed, good salary and the king’s graces – for what those were worth.</p><p>After the battle, Valandil himself liked to tell, of deeds and warfare and especially if wine was flowing. Aglaril often sent Baron and her away then, for she did not want them to hear of death and peril and fathomed them rather protected than exposed. It had not been of much use, Morwen thought now a little bit bitter, for in the end she had seen battle nonetheless.</p><p>“A poem from the free people of the world about the rings of power. The nine rings of men, the nine Ringwraiths-“ He spoke foreshadowing and Morwen halted her thoughts, throwing a long glance at her chieftain.</p><p>“Shadows in the dark, why are you telling me this?” She asked suspiciously. Aragorn raked his fingers through his tangled locks and brushed them back, so they fell over the nape of his neck.</p><p>“You wandle this world longer than any mortal and yet you have never asked yourself why Ringwraiths carry a shadowy and cloudy form?” Morwen chewed her bottom lip and tangled her fingers in the gras a little bit more.</p><p>“They are creatures of Morgoroth, he created Orcs and now he created Ringwraiths, I did not ask greatly –“ She defended herself and Aragorn lifted his hands to sooth her for he had not meant it as attack but rather inquiringly and surprised. Ever since he had first lain eyes upon the shadowy creatures – had heard of them in tales Morwen told, he had wondered.</p><p>He had first encountered them on the border to Harad, where he had travelled many years ago and visited the dunes and great deserts and his skin had been torched underneath the burning sun and he had left behind more than sweat and blood. A damned country, dry and sandy and yet terribly beautiful, their people prideful and harsh their tongue.</p><p>“I only ever saw them once, when I was lying in a ditch around Fornost, just before king Arvedui had to abandon the city – Vairë was I lucky, for if I had not been on scout duty that night, I would have lost my life in the icy bay of Forochel.” She lamented. “But back to the Ringwraiths, even if I had taken interest in them, one did not speak of them, for they were the most feared weapons of the king of Angmar. Made the men shudder and the children cry.” For many children had sat in camps around the battlefield during the last days of the kingdom of Arthedain. “But now that you speak of it, I can guess what you mean. The Halfling carries one of the lost rings? Was that why on Amon Sûl there were Ringwraiths? Because the Halfling somehow managed to steal one of their rings?” Mithrandir had told her of the sturdiness of the people of the Shire, but now that she spoke it aloud, it sounded silly and not at all true. Morwen furrowed her brows and muttered under her breath. “No, can’t be, no one can do it.”</p><p>Aragorn shook his head and dismissed her theory. “He does not carry a ring of men, he carries the one ring – to bind them all and bring them into darkness.” He whispered the last bit and Morwen shuddered. “They know of his burden and chased after us on Amon Sûl.” He spoke at last and the wind blew a little fiercer over their heads, as if it tried to place his words in a mural and carry them away with the wind to lesser shores.</p><p>“Then why did you ask for my council? You already knew the answer!” She exclaimed and dug her fingers through the roots of the gras and into the soft earth, that hummed beneath her steadily. Nothing was creeping poisonously through the veins of Imladris – not yet anyways.</p><p>“I needed to know if you had heard already – if you had, I would have explained to Taron and Isilan as well, for they would have learned it from you over time – but they had not and confidence is of utmost key – no one can know.”</p><p>“Then why tell me?” Morwen asked, now utterly confused, and lost amongst Aragorn’s swift thoughts. He did not explain greatly and as much as she was an age old, she could not guess his thoughts – not yet at least. Aragorn watched her with grave eyes, batted his eyelashes once, then twice and tugged on the seam of his tunic, before replying: “Because you are the keeper of tales, in the end, if Halbarad and I shall not return from protecting the ring or whatever else, that needs protection – the role of chieftain falls to you, Morwen. I trust you and I believe that you will do better than I ever did.” He spoke the last sentence gravely agitated and Morwen understood, for the line of Isildur had been straight and if he died without leaving a son, it would break.</p><p>But then how could Aragorn have a family? For he loved the lady Arwen, and she would not be his – not that Morwen knew of anyways. In the end, they had no home and no place to rest, except for a few fields and villages in the Angle, not far from Imladris. That was all, that was left of the once to powerful Númenoreans – hirts and farmers. Morwen could not stilt a , for Elendil and Isildur would have been mad with fury and red with shame and Valandil would have rather been dead than a farmer. Once upon a time, Morwen would have preferred death over the plain life as well – now that she knew death, not so much, for it was bloody and painful and deprived one of all the joys of life.</p><p>“You will guide our people, well what is left of them, to safety and until the last one has perished. I need you to swear Morwen – that you will do everything that is in your power.” He jumped to his feet, now a great fire lit in his grey eyes, need and urge had lit it there and Morwen had scarsly ever seen it before, for it was so similar to what had burned in Elendil’s eyes and then later in every king of Arnor’s eyes. Maybe it was the longing for greater deeds, for glory and peace – to rule just and fair.</p><p>Morwen mustered her companion, stroking through the grass more and Aragorn waited, his hand outstretched eagerly, for her to take and swear – but she did not, not until the shadows grew long upon their faces and the sun sunk behind the mountains.</p><p>Aragorn was the last of his line, the weight on his shoulders marginally higher than she could ever imagine. Morwen was the keeper of tales – nothing more nothing less. All she had to do was to carry along the tales of Númenor, write them down for the generations to come after and even that task sometimes felt as if she would crush beneath.</p><p>“I swear.” She finally spoke and grabbed the trembling hand and sealed the bond and Aragorn’s face grew lighter again, his shoulders squared up, as if a heavy burden still rested upon them, but a little bit less heavy now, or he simply called more strength now his own. Because in the end, if she did not, no one would. Even if the task at hand seemed unfulfillable. “They are my people too, you know. And I had seen them burn once upon a time – I do not wish to see it a second time. I don’t think I will ever forget the flickering lights of blue flames, burning through the chalked walls of Annúminas, how they danced and mocked upon the mirror glaze of lake Evedim and the smoke that ascended. Dark and thick it was, smelling of burning people – the ashes stuck to your skin for days, the grains sticking in your hair many days longer, after the fires had ceased and were no longer visible on the Horizon.” Morwen placed her hand on Aragorn’s shoulder and held him steady. “If you fall, I will find a new homestead for our people, where we may dwell the rest of our days.”</p><p>And Aragorn drew a tiny smile upon his thin lips. “But gladly, it is all bound to a may, and an if and I have all the confidence of Arda in you.” Morwen spoke gladdened and Aragorn’s hand pressed hers firmer down onto his bony shoulders, that was ragged with tendons and muscles. Not the figure of a king but a soldier.</p><p>“And with that hope, I may one day ascend the throne of Gondor and reunite the kingdoms and make them whole and great once more.” She patted his shoulder benevolently and looked at the darker sky, that spoke of evening and the music ringing from the houses above them, calling to dinner and for company and music – and stories.</p><p>“Come Aragorn, the weary bones of your servant long for a hot meal and the comfort of wooden benches.” Morwen chuckled and released his shoulder of her grip. He had been torn since earliest childhood for he had not known many years of his fate and who he was, living in Imladris free of sorrow and fear. Aranarth had filled his place for many long years – or what was left of it, for there were but a few Rangers left and those living in villages governed themselves and he was not needed there. Bur Aranarth had not been a general nor a chief, he was a farmer and on his farm he was most content.</p><p>Now he was long dead, buried alongside Arathorn, under deep hills of grass and earth, embalmed for eternity to come. Gilraen rested next to his bed, her bones carved of old age, that he had not been given. Arathorn had been no king, a good chieftain but no king – Aragorn differed and Morwen could see much of Elendil in the tall man.</p><p>Aragorn claimed his chair upon the high table of Elrond and bowed to the master of Imladris who wore today, a gown of simple midnight blue, a ring of silver set upon his wise forehead, glimmering in the dim lights. More people sat at his table than yesterday and more yesterday than the day before.</p><p>Morwen took her place next to Taron and mustered Aragorn, how he greeted a blond elf warm heartedly. Legolas of the Woodland realm. She had seen him before, if only once – or maybe was it twice? She could not recall, but the way companion of Aragorn was no stranger to her. Halbarad was very intrigued by a pastry, filled with pigeon and roots, berries embellishing the top.</p><p>Next to the Lord Glorfindel there sat a delegation of dwarves, their beards long and mighty and curled, twisted into braids and adorned with metals. They were stout and small and yet widely built and no one would overlook them – not even in a crowd of fair elves. They could barely reach for the dishes, their arms too short and the table to high, as it was made for Men and Elves and not dwarves. Next to the dwarves – no mingled amongst them, sat an ancient Halfling, his face already wrinkled with age, his blue eyes sparkling friendly and amused – laughing often and eating even more. But that was not the ringbearer, Morwen knew as much, for that Halfling was too old to carry anything but his own body and even that seemed difficult. Amongst the other tables, she spied upon another group of Halflings. Three of them – so the third must be missing – but where he was, she did not know. But it thirsted her to see the ring, at least once in her life, for she told stories of Isildur’s curse and yet she had never truly lain eyes upon it.</p><p>She turned to Taron, who was hastily slurping away hot soup and hit him lovingly in the side. “What?” He hissed, submerged in his task and not at all amused at the interruption. A little soup had landed on the tablecloth, staining the white and leaving behind greenish dots of lentils and peas.</p><p>“How fast can dwarves run?” She peered over to the short-legged fellows and then to Halbard, who had twisted in his seat and now openly stared at the delegation. Taron shook his head consternated and continued slurping his soup enjoyingly.</p><p>“Ask one if he wants to race you, if you are so eager to know.” He panted and shook his head, his back crooked over the bowl, looking more like an old man than in his fifties. A younger dwarf, with red hair and a grim face looked maliciously at Halbarad and the ranger turned comfortably around, focusing back on his plate, and the pastry he had plucked apart almost entirely.</p><p>“Is Isilan gone?” She asked and opted herself for the soup, Halbarad nodded and picked up a piece of pigeon with his knife and Morwen debated about taking one for herself – maybe later she thought, might be one of the last warm meals she would get in a while. “Will you partake at the council?” She shoved the sleeves of her gown to her elbows and mustered Halbarad from the side. He did not speak a great deal today. He took another bite and let his eyes graze over the Edhel. Most bore Uniforms of a kind, if it were that of a guard, a wash maiden or simply a maid, it scarcely seemed to matter. Some though, scattered amongst the servants, wore clothes that only let one deduce, that they inherited different posts or no post at all.</p><p>Baron sat next to a maid, dressed in similar blue clothes as Morwen, chatting friendly and adamantly with her, the Elleth’s hand rested upon an Ellon’s forearm, who wore the uniform of a guard and looked odd amongst the scholars and accountants, maidens, and seamstresses. Most guards tended to clutter together, sitting tightly pressed on the wooden benches, eating swiftly and then leaning back and bickering and laughing.</p><p>“No, Aragorn will be the only Dúnedan to attend.” He let his gaze return to the table and Morwen’s followed. “Tomorrow wear tunic and trousers – and not such hideous dress.” The dark-haired figure tilted her head and looked at Halbarad in amusement. “Insulted by something?” Halbarad sighed annoyedly and shook his head. “You are supposed to keep yourself ready, a dress does not count as ready.” He complained and munched further on his soup.</p><p>“As it pleases you.” She spoke mockingly and did not take his command malevolent. Halbarad was agreeable most of time. Until sometimes he was not, but that was the same with all people, Men or of Elven origin, for about the Dwarves she could not say. She had not met many dwarfs in her days, or at least not spoken to many, for they had often passed through Annúminas on their way to the Hithaeglir. But they had spoken little and often in tongues Morwen had not understood and she had paid little attention to the astute creatures. Elves had been more to her liking – but now, she wondered what they might seek here in Imladris, for there had not been any dwarves seen here in many long years.</p><p>“Why do you wear dresses anyways?” Halbarad muttered grumpily underneath his beard. He did truly not understand, she may be a woman in the end – no not a woman, a Perelleth, but still, she was a ranger of the North and what had just pleased his eyes, only minutes ago, now wounded them greatly. He had known her for many years, and she had not aged a day, had sat upon her knees when younger and was now painfully reminded that when he was old and grey and miserable, she would still be young and fair and without wrinkles.</p><p>Oh, Halbarad still carried the ancient sorrows of the Númenoreans, deeply engrained into soul and body, fear of death and rot, carved into his bones until eternal sleep.</p><p>Morwen lay her grey eyes upon the man, misty cold and all to eternal, days past shimmering beneath the surface and days to come. A subtle twitch formed around her under eyes and she replied: “Because it is comfortable Halbarad, because I am a female being and I do like to feel as such every once in a while. Although I do enjoy the troll flair.”</p><p>“Well then, a troll you are.” He declared and placed his eyes upon an Elleth of whom he did not know the name and the clambering feeling of fleetingness slowly drained off his bones, even if he would never leave it behind him.</p><p>“Besides that, I need to make new arrows and knit a new pair of socks, mine are completely worn through and more threads than socks.” Morwen mustered her companion and wished that he were not a grown man anymore, but a little child again, to whom she told tales and soothed during windy storms. But he was not that little boy anymore.</p><p>“Oh, good idea, new socks I need to make too. Also darn some underwear, mine is so holy, I got barely any fabric left over my buttocks.” She gazed at her favourite companion and thought of his childhood, oh he had always been wild and free and so unlike Halbarad. A small sorrow pounded in her heart, like a sore that did not heal. And lonely thoughts ghosted through her head, for if she chose now, she could lay next to Halbarad in the Barrow, barred up on cold stone for eternity.</p><p>“I should fletch some arrows, Taron do you not need new bolts?” Taron nodded. “Good.” Halbarad said pleased, a plan mapping itself out inside of his head, behind the high forehead. “Then that we shall do tomorrow.” He decided and returned silently to his meal, weariness, and tiredness seeping through his steadily wrinkling face.</p><p>Isilan’s spot was empty now and he was missed. Morwen could feel it in her own heart and damned Aragorn for a moment, for sending him off in an instant. Halbarad turned to speak to the ranger and yet the place was empty, he stilted, mustered the empty bench, and then returned resignedly to his meal.</p><p>Morwen gazed back at the table of Elrond and occupied her eyes with Aragorn, who was having an intense conversation with the blond Ellon. He did not speak of it, yet every once in a while, he would disappear and come back with Lembas under his arm and new stories to tell to the children, sadly he never had asked any fairy tales of the elves of Mirkwood for them – that would have interested Morwen a great deal.</p><p>Legolas was clad in silverish silk, glittering coolly and yet invitingly underneath the torches and lamps that lit the hall. His hair was golden and fine, less golden though than the Lord Glorfindel’s and also, less fine. He bore high cheekbones and a slender face, so different from the elves of Imladris. She wondered of what kin he had descended.</p><p>Even for an Ellon, he was a sight for sore eyes, milky white skin, unblessed and smooth, with high cheekbones and high curved lips, pleasantly so, yet they looked capable of harbouring a deeply bruising and lashing tongue. Small dimples formed on his cheeks, whenever Aragorn spoke of something amusing and his lips curled every so often, his eyes rarely moving away from Aragorn, fixed on the dark-haired man. Next to Legolas he seemed to disappear in dullness, and where normally he looked noble, on his own, between mortal men, he now seemed almost sickly next to the Ellon.</p><p>“If you stare any more, everyone in the entire household of Elrond will have noticed you drooling on the floor at the sight of the elven prince.” Taron had bent over and smirked at Morwen benevolently and yet mockingly. She shook her shoulders and then her head, tearing away from the Ellon and marvelling in private over his beauty.</p><p>For he was beautiful, his eyes hugged by dark lashes and crowned by dark brows. What colour his eyes were, she could not pinpoint.</p><p>“Listen, Taron, if I reminded you every time you saw a pretty Elleth not to bawl your eyes out, we would have barely made it past the doorframe. He is a sight for sore eyes, even you as a man must see it.” Halbarad chuckled and Taron exclaimed defensively: “I only got eyes for Noora!”</p><p>“Mhhhm.” Craned Halbarad now too and all three of them knew, it was true. He only did have eyes for Noora – and the occasional Elleth.</p>
<hr/><p>Author's notes: </p><p>I had to make up some characters here, to fill the story. But commonly ackowledged Aranath does not exist. Anyways I found it difficult to reason, that the Dunedain should have gone 20 years without a leader. Aragorn only returned to the wild when he was 20 and Elrond had told him who he truly was. Therefore: Aranath.</p><p>Gilraen is Aragorn's mother and she brought him to Imladris when he was but a babe. Arathorn is his father, who died very young. Now Gilraen's death is not really put down anywhere and if she still lived during the last days of the third age, but I found it rather enerving to have to construct a background story for her too, so she is just dead. Probably died a few years before Aragorn went after the ring. Dunedain may still live long, but Aragorn was an exemption, and therefore I feel not too bad, letting her die a natural death.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Morwen had hunted down a few skeins of wool and two sets of knitting needles from a maid. Cold and hard they rested against the palm of her hands, for they were made of cooper and rather simple for being of elvish making. Normally they should carry at least one rank of leaves and two blossoms.</p><p>She sauntered down the hallway, enjoying the breaths of fresh air, brushing over her bare legs and sex, and pouted at the thought of wearing trousers again tomorrow. In her head she scolded herself for it, for many had it worse than her and really it was no reason to be ill tempered or even sour. But nonetheless it was lost of something she had relished and somehow it made her cranky.</p><p>The socks needn’t be pretty, really on the contrary actually. Patterns were difficult to mend and darn because one had to pick up crossed over loops, which made it impossible and torn looking, if fixed. The pattern never kept its shape once mended. Besides, she liked the ragged look of mixed yarn and in the end, they would need to be darned soon again anyways and at latest then, look mismatched. Besides, a little bit of ranger charm had its very own appeal.</p><p>She grinned widely at the thought and her fingers itched to start the knitting, for she found it therapeutic and soothing to the mind. It was something done before the fire at night, whilst stories were told, or the crops debated. Regarding crops. Her hut in the Angel had a leak. She shook her head, that was a thought for other days. Definitely not tonight, where she sat in the halls of Imladris and warmed her feet upon a hearty fire.</p><p>Concerning that fire: Once upon a time, the subject of chats would have been the intrigues of court, the fancy of knights and lords and the one or other book – if she were lucky. Although she did not mind some simple-minded gossip either. It was entertaining at times. And to be fair, she had part-taken in a fair share of it.</p><p>In a small hall before a fireplace, she found Taron, hurdled together on a bench with Aragorn, the gorgeous Ellon between the two, his long legs stretched across the floor, almost catlike. A few Halflings had taken up smaller stools all around, the same she had earlier spotted in the great hall and Mîthrandir had taken up court in a large chair, a pipe at his lips, happily puffing with the ancient Halfling, who held in his lap a book, splayed over gnarled legs. Halbarad sat in a chair closer to the fire. Even with protecting the borders of the Shire, he had not picked up the habit of smoking pipe, even with the love of the Halflings for pipeweed.</p><p>Morwen had only tried it a few times and had enjoyed the hazing effect of it, but contrary to the men, who had simply enjoyed a little bit of a hazing effect, she had been completely gone, her mind clouded for half a day at least.</p><p>For a moment Morwen paused and her heart stilted, made a saunter at the unusual picture, and then continued beating steadily, warmed by the fire and even more so by the assembled company. The Halfling’s voice rose and contently he rhymed:</p><p>
  <em>I sit besides the fire and think</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Of all that I have seen, </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Of meadow-flowers and butterflies</em>
</p><p>
  <em>In summers that have been; </em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <em>Of yellow leaves and gossamer</em>
</p><p>
  <em>In autumns that there were, </em>
</p><p>
  <em>With morning mist and silver sun</em>
</p><p>
  <em>And wind upon my hair. </em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <em>I sit beside the fire and think </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Of how the world will be</em>
</p><p>
  <em>When winter comes without a spring</em>
</p><p>
  <em>That I shall ever see</em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <em>For still are so many things</em>
</p><p>
  <em>That I have never seen: </em>
</p><p>
  <em>In every wood in every spring</em>
</p><p>
  <em>There is a different green </em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <em>I sit beside the fire and think</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Of people long ago, </em>
</p><p>
  <em>And people who will see a world</em>
</p><p>
  <em>That I shall never know </em>
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <em>But all the while I sit and think </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Of times there were before, </em>
</p><p>
  <em>I listen for returning feet </em>
</p><p>
  <em>And voices at the door. </em>
</p><p>Morwen relished the verses and a sweet but bitter feeling stirred in her heart, for she always knew what spring would come after winter but thought of the past ever so often. It made her heart clench and think of brighter days and gayer times.</p><p>She stepped inside the hall, through the carved doorway and silently patted towards Taron, to sink against his feet, for there was no place left on stools or chairs, nor benches and there were no carpets. But she took his legs as rest for her back and listened to the muttered words the Halflings exchanged. And it was homely and she felt at home – only the small children missing, leaning against their mothers and fathers, tired of the long day and playing between the rows of benches or in summer between rows of wheat and ray.</p><p>“Oh Bilbo, but you have seen it all, no?” The grey wizard asked rhetorically, clad in his lumps, that covered much and yet if one knew where to look, the power gloomed off him dooming. Of course, Mîthrandir knew – he knew of all and everything. The old Halfling sighed with a smile on his lips, that spoke of all the places he had not seen yet and wished to see, but his legs were now old and his heart weak, and he had almost spent all his days.</p><p>“Gandalf, Gandalf, I wished to see the Blue Mountains and maybe also the grey havens. Glorfindel has spoken much of them and it itches me to go. But I know I can’t.” Mithrandir puffed his rings silently and mustered the old Hobbit beneath bushy brows, that rather belonged to an owl than an Istari.</p><p>Morwen upheld a skein to Taron and them passed him a set of copper needles. She took her own skein and cast on 60 loops, on circular needles, her fingers flying slowly and then swiftly over the yarn and placing the stitches evenly over the three needles.</p><p>“Did she not spare you matching yarn?” Halbarad asked with a raised brow.</p><p>“Nay, I did not ask, in a month they are holy again and then they’ll look rancid anyways.” She dropped her eyes to his boots and looked at them contemplating, as if she were trying to remember how his socks had looked like. Probably some colour of brown – but she could not remember. He shrugged and sunk into the lean contently, murmuring to himself and then humming to the tune of a song of the Dúnedain.</p><p>
  <em>East and West, South and North, </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Wander feet, upon mountain slope, </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Between forest green and pillars hewn, </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Hills of mist and lakes so deep, </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Upon ruins and marsh, hummus and under Ark. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Wander, wander, stranger far. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Across the plains of Arnor, </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Where grass is green and flowers bloom, </em>
</p><p>
  <em>We call none home.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>For Wanderers we are, </em>
</p><p>
  <em>And wanderers we shall be, </em>
</p><p>
  <em>For all eternity. </em>
</p><p>He sung and the Halflings quieted down, listening to the tunes, that were deep and well sounding in the ears, even for a man.</p><p>“Master Halbarad, what is that what you sing?” A quirky looking Halfling shoot from his chair and watched the Dúnadan with eager eyes, interested as an elf may be in the morning sun or high growing trees, that almost reach to the sky.</p><p>“That, Master Pippin, is a song of my people.” He spoke and started all a new again, now louder and clearer. Aragorn joined with his deep voice, singing the lower tune to it and Taron a higher one, the chorus complete. A wider smile spread across her lips. Pippin the Halfling listened awestruck, his nose pointy and sharp and his squared chin reached forward adventurous and all too mischievous. He was curious and the pointed ears of the Hobbits lay buried underneath a large head of locks.</p><p>“Your people? You mean the rangers?” Bilbo chuckled oldly and then replied for Halbarad.</p><p>“No Peregrin, of the Dúnedain – but I think you may call them rangers…” He gazed at their chieftain. Aragorn batted his eyes. “Yes, Bilbo, indeed.” Oh, they were the rangers of the North, wandering the woods, without home without land. Homeless one could say. No – Halbarad reminded himself, they had the Angel and the Angel was more than enough. Sometimes he let Morwen’s melancholy grip onto him. Melancholy that was nit at all deserved and unjust to their home. For he had always lived there and before Halbarad his father had and before many more had settled in the lands between the Bruinen and Mitheithel<a href="#_ftn1" id="_ftnref1" name="_ftnref1">[1]</a>.</p><p>“Who are the Dúnedain?” Peregrin asked now astute, his eyes glooming as if he had lain eyes upon a cake that looked all too sweet and alluring and yet was not to be touched. A fatter Hobbit piqued up as well, with blonder hair and a rounder face and sweet kissing lips. Aragorn measured the Halflings for a moment.</p><p>“They are descendants of Númenor and Westerness. Our ancestors that came across the great sea, when Númenor was buried under the waves of the great sea, and then settled in Middle Earth.” He paused. “But if you wish to know more, it is Morwen here at my side, you should ask. She is a keeper of tales amongst my people and can satisfy your hungry and curious minds a thousand times over.” Pippin, or Peregrin how he seemed to be called as well, descended his searching eyes upon the dark-haired woman, clad in blue wool, her hair neatly braided behind her head in three strands at each side, uncovering her pointy ears, that were smaller than any elf’s he had seen yet.</p><p>Aragorn mustered the Perelleth and remarked once more the melancholy she carried in her hearth and festered all over the place. In her essence, Morwen was a relic, something left over of the old days. Like an old armour, polished and glittering still – beautiful even, memories coined into its glistening steel – but scratched and weary, nonetheless. Something that long belonged to the Burrows<a href="#_ftn2" id="_ftnref2" name="_ftnref2">[2]</a>. Something that should have been dead centuries ago. He could see the same thoughts in Halbarad’s eyes.</p><p>He shook his head. What was he thinking about? He was glad that she still lived and many long years he had been glad to have her by his side. She was a spy, trained by many years and carried in her heart all that Aragorn was set upon to restore.</p><p>Morwen called piercing eyes her own, as grey as Gandalf’s long robes and yet – more shimmering, Peregrin supposed. Thin lips were tilted into a half smile, like a smirk but less and he did not guess her to be amused. No really, could she be amused?</p><p>She mustered Pippin with her silverish eyes and yet he did not feel as if she was looking through him, or into him for that matter, for he had had that feeling many times with the elves. They did not seem to care for what was outside but rather pry inside and he did not fancy that at all. Not that there was much to discover anyways – or at least so he thought.</p><p>But no, this elven lady looked at him and he appreciated it. Really if he had not seen the pointed ears, he would have called her to be a human lady, for she did not possess the same glow and shimmer most elves called their own. Besides, she was knitting a pair of socks, he had not known that elves would knit, it seemed so – so banal. Especially because she held not in her hands colours of astonishing beauty and silken thread, but rather garbed wool in brown and ochre and seemed to mind very little.</p><p>She was not white but rather sunburnt and her sleeves had shimmied up a little bit and let sight to pale forearms. They were of the same colour as most elves, he remarked, of the same evenness. Her hands though were tanned and brown and almost looked garbed. She placed her needles upon her lap, placed a hand upon her heart and inclined her head lightly before Pippin, her eyes were happy, he had only seen now. It was the elvish fashion of greeting; Pippin had learned only days ago. Strider<a href="#_ftn3" id="_ftnref3" name="_ftnref3">[3]</a> had displayed it too.</p><p>“Master Pippin.” She spoke with a ragged edge to her voice, not at all like the melodious sounds Elrond uttered or the maids of his household he had seen until now. It rather sounded very alike to the ranger besides Legolas, the elf. A foreign touch swung through the vocals, and he pinpointed it as that ragged sound. It most certainly did not belong to this age, he thought. Not that he knew very much of those sorts of things. Not that he cared for a matter of fact.</p><p>“Do elves belong to the Dúnedain too now?” Sam asked in wonder, before recollecting his good manners and presenting himself. “Samweis Gamdschie, my lady.” The dark-haired elf laughed, and her laugh carried the strange sound along. And Peregrin could not know where it came from and what it sounded like, for he had never seen the sea and yet it sounded like water splashing gisty against jagged cliffs, waves breaking on marbled stone and ragged tips. Foaming and fuming – but he did not know. And he would have never thought of it, so he just wondered and compared it to the sound of the gurgling water of the Brandywine river.</p><p>“No Master Gamdschie. The Dúnedain are a race of men, of the Edain<a href="#_ftn4" id="_ftnref4" name="_ftnref4">[4]</a>, but my father was Tûrdor of the elves.” Morwen replied and looked at the Halfling kindly. He nodded and the knowledge seept through his mind, into his soul. “Strange” Said Legolas and Morwen lay her eyes upon the Ellon. “For I only know of Lúthien and Beren, Idril and Tuor, and of no other match made between mortal man and immortal elf.”</p><p>He pondered and his eyes gloomed darkly in the flickering fire, making them much more brown and not blue. She gazed a while too long, a while too intently and wondered when she had last seen an elf of the woodland realm. She could not recall if she had indeed ever.</p><p>“Yes and no, Master Legolas, yes and no.” She said and the Sam Gamdschie shook his head. “You speak in riddles and I do not understand, you elven folk may comprehend, but for a Hobbit, this is all too much.” Her singing laugh wavered over the company before she began. But it was not melodic at all and Sam noticed a slightly irritated twitch in Legolas ears.</p><p>Sam loved the elves and desired greatly to understand them – Legolas of the woodland realm was kinder than the rest and more understanding, less condescending and less irritating.</p><p>“Well then, Master Gamdschie, do you wish to hear the tale of my father and mother? But I warn you. If you do not know who the Númenoreans were, it may prove too difficult to understand.” A small fire lit in the Halfling’s eyes and he replied fiercely, for he did not like to be called daft, especially not by elves, where they had the tendency to do so more than often. “Oh, I for my part wish to hear it too now, you made me curious, Dúnadaneth.” Legolas spoke and his furrowed brows smoothed themselves again.</p><p>“I will understand and if I don’t, I will ask Strider.” Strider they called him then, Morwen thought, oh a name given by the Halflings undeservingly for he did not simply stride, oh no, Aragorn of the Dúnedain did much more than that.</p><p>Morwen turned her gaze from Legolas and chuckled into her chest upon the Halfling’s words. “Well then, I shall begin. What you need to know is that the Dúnedain are granted a much longer life than normal men, more than thrice of that, as they are descendants of Elros, brother of Elrond, who chose the path of Mankind and became a mortal. He was the first king of Númenor, which was once an island between Aman, mhhm Valinor, and Middle Earth. But now it is long lost – that though is a tale for another time.” She looked upon Samwise again and he nodded understandingly, even if his brows were furrowed.</p><p>“Alright, Lady Morwen. I understand.”</p><p>“Good.” She smiled.</p><p><em>When Elendil and Anarion and Isildur sailed from Rómenna across the great Sea</em>-</p><p>“What is Rómenna and who are Anarion and Elendil?” The third of the company of Halflings asked.</p><p>“Rómenna was a haven in Númenor and Elendil is a forefather of Aragorn, first king of Arnor and Gondor. Anarion is his son and will be the second king of Arnor.” Morwen explained patiently.</p><p>
  <em>-and to Middle-earth, many of their people were carried on their ships of which Elendil held four and Isildur three and Anarion two-</em>
</p><p>“And Isildur?”</p><p>“Isildur is the brother of Anarion and the second king of Arnor.” </p><p>
  <em>-and together they escaped the wrath and ruin of the Valar of which some still held the Faithful in their good graces, yet still Elendil had to watch and bear the ruin of his home lands as he sailed East, towards the plains and riches of a world his forefathers had placed in ruin. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>And upon Elendils ship sat Nimirróth, second daughter of Amandil and sister to Elendil, mother of none and daughter to many. Not fair was she but great – in heart and spirit and her lays carried Elendils ships across the sea and to Eregion where he set foot and his people set foot and he became the first king of Arnor. And much was lost and few remained and yet he walked many leagues to the sea of Nenuial that lay bare beneath the shadows of the Emyn Uial and there he set camp and Nimirróth loved it dearly there and Elendil’s wife, Aglaril begged her husband to dwell there and so Annúminas was built, its towers of carven stone, stretching daring across the lake and for many years they dwelt there in peace, whilst many others walked more east and to lands that were later called Cardolan and Rhudaur. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>And when Sauron’s forces grew again in the South – Elendil and the great Eleven-king Gil-Galad forged an alliance and amongst his commanders was Tûrdor of the Noldor. And when Nimirróth sung her lays of the lost Númenor and the mount Meneltarma and of its beauty and former glory – he was touched in his heart and Tûrdor took Nimirróth to be his wife and sealed the bond of the last allegiance. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>But their union was fated under ill wishing stars, for some Valar may have forgiven but most did not and that was not clear in the beginning but in the end. For everything mortal has a beginning and an end and yet the Eldar do not. And it is not Eru Illuvátar’s wish for men and Eldar to mingle. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>But so Nimirróth followed her husband to Gondolin and lived unhappily amongst the Eldar for they mocked her and bestowed upon her the graces of a child and she sang many lays of her misery and blinded eyes for she had only seen the beauty and grace of the Eldar and not their immortal arrogance and wisdom. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>And so many years she dwelt and bore Tûrdor a son and a daughter, which she named Baron and Morwen, for her first child was born in foreign lands and was therefore called away and Morwen saw the light of day in Annúminas when the war was already waging and she was called dark lady for she was born in dark times and her hair gloomed even mistier than her father Tûrdor’s had. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>And Nimirróth waited for her husband to come home – but he never came, slain in the battles of the Dagorland and Nimirróth who was bitter now towards the Eldar, yet not towards her husband, and sat still for many days – depleted of all her sparks of life and a lay she touched nevermore. Nor did she ever lay her soothing hands again upon Morwen or Baron for they both looked like their father so much and she could not bear the pieces of her broken heart and so Nimirróth lay down her sorrows upon the shores of the western sea and wandled over the brim and once more became one with the sea.</em>
</p><p>Morwen finished and the Halflings mustered her in awe, for it was sad and not comforting and not as beautiful as the lay of Lúthien Tinuviel and Beren of men. Of that they had heard whilst on the way with Strider.</p><p>And a while passed until Bilbo spoke, his voice frail and old. “What a miserable tale, yet how true is it? It seems to me, as if there are many things left in the open and tales are simply tales in the end? Are they not, Morwen of the Dúnedain?” He asked and his aged blue eyes glittered beneath the fire.</p><p>“I cannot tell you Bilbo of the Halflings, for I did not know my mother for very long, when she passed away, I was but a mere child. That she was reunited with the sea is true. I do know that my father did not love her, for he had already found his mate and she had returned to Aman many yën prior. If my mother loved Tûrdor deeply I cannot tell you, for it may very well be that she was simply grieved by the loss of her beloved lands and then the loss of her brother. I do not think she was ever happy upon arriving in middle-earth, for her heart sat rooted in the green plains of Westerness.” Morwen looked at the old Halfling pensively.</p><p>“Ah Lady Morwen, I am a Hobbit not a Halfling.” He reproached kindly and the lines on his face deepened with a soft smirk. “I think I have read of it before, in some book in the library of the Lord Elrond. Thick and grey, with golden insignias in foreign script upon, but written in Tengwar of simple Sindarin inside.”</p><p>“Oh, Bilbo, I think you have discovered the collection of tales Morwen writes down every time she visits Imladris.” Aragorn pondered and Morwen picked her needles back up. “Mhhmmm, yes, but what was that script upon the back of the book? It made me curious, for I thought to have mastered to distinguish all scripts. But that seldom one, I could not.” He asked and finally his pipe, which was resting comfortably in his hand went out and the smoke extinguished. Legolas took in a deep breath for he did not greatly enjoy the stench of pipe weeds and preferred the clear air of Imladris clear.</p><p>“Adûnaic, Master Bilbo, the script of Númenor – now it is a language long lost and unspoken. But I found it fitting for a collection of Tales – oh I would have even written in it if only it was still understood.” She looked a bit sad and dreary and her eyes clouded of the memory. “Well.” She said finally, her knitting needles taking up a faster pace again. “I suppose it is alright.”</p><p>“Quite so.” Said Mithrandir and gave her a kind look, before restuffing his pipe and lighting it again, leaving Legolas to sigh and mutter a few words of complaint. Morwen wondered what the wizard may mean with his words, for they were simple and not cryptic and yet she did not understand. Pippin had taken off his jacket and now sat in a white shirt and suspenders, his calf length trousers almost by his knees and his hairy feet tapping on the ground, whilst Mithrandir himself now took upon him to rhyme. It was a joyful verse, of fireworks in the Shire and not a care in the world seemed to ghost over his mind.</p><p>“What are you thinking mellon-nîn?<a href="#_ftn5" id="_ftnref5" name="_ftnref5">[5]</a>” Legolas had turned to Aragorn and looked at his friend with care. The tale the Dúnadaneth had told earlier had delighted him and yet it had been sad, not because Nimirróth had taken her own life, but because she had lost her home. He did not know what it was like, to be unrooted, but his homelands were dying, infested with plagues of the dark, seeping through the crowded forest floor and into the roots of trees so ancient. And Legolas could not remember a time they had not stood there. He had climbed upon their branches when he was but an elfling and still climbed them now, watching them die under his fingers.</p><p>“The riders, I cannot imagine where the other four were – what purpose they served. What other hunt than for the ring, their master sent them on.” He spoke and neither he nor Legolas knew an answer to it. He had told Legolas of the strange doings when he had arrived, for in the care of the woodland elves he had left Gollum and Gollum had been the only creature that had known of the ring being in the possession of the Halfling. Legolas had trembled and told the ranger of the escape of the creature, grey shadows on the fair face.</p><p>Both Aragorn and Legolas were weary and hoped that the Council would bring clarity. But Frodo was not yet awake and without him, Elrond would not hold council. Legolas had not meant to come to Imladris, well neither had Aragorn nor the dwarves or anyone else, but now they were there, and Elrond had taken up the chance.</p><p>Aragorn’s foster father had been pleased by the turn of events for he had dreaded the arrival of the ring and the strain placed upon Imladris with its presence. But the ring was not Aragorn’s only worry.</p><p>Aragorn knew of Taron’s wish to return to the Angle, if not for long though, for he missed his family dearly and he would be happy to grant him his request but needed to wait for the decision of the council. He feared that they may have to carry it further away, to the grey havens or Lindon and that he needed all the rangers he could summon to help protect – and he wished it would not come to that, for it would mean death to many a ranger. His people were already depleted and starved of their own culture, wedged between the Angle and yet it was not really their home. He did not wish to send them on another quest that brought little hope and few remedies to them.</p><p>“Mor, will you knit me a pair of socks too?” He asked her sweetly. “For my birthday?” And wedged the thoughts out of his mind, for he could not resolve his problems today.</p><p>The dark-haired Dúnadaneth furrowed her stark brows. “Your birthday has just passed? Besides, why me? Ask Taron if you truly want a pair of new socks.” He could feel the leather of his boots rub against his heels – not that it posed a problem in Imladris, but in the wild it caused ugly and painful blisters and the sole rubbing against his bare feet festered nasty infections. He did not wish to sit in a ditch and care for infected wounds that were unnecessary.</p><p>“Taron knits holy socks; do you truly want your darling chief walk around with holy socks?” Halbarad said with a chuckling smile on his face. “Quite frankly he is too lazy to do it himself.” He called out his cousin and struck his hair behind his ear. Grey was forming at his temples, not many hairs but still a few and spoke of his advancing age.</p><p>“It’s the three thousand years I have spent knitting socks that you are envious of – don’t look at me like that, I am the master of the sock knitting.” She proclaimed and wagered if she truly wanted to knit a new pair of socks for her chief. “If you get me wool, I shall knit you socks.” She then finally said and picked up a swifter pace, to create the leg of the sock, for she had finished the border. She wagered that she really had an advantage, for if she looked at Taron, who knitted as slowly as a snail when it was hot and dry, her practice was truly a blessing.</p><p>“Have you seen Gildor of the Havens? I wonder why he is seeking council from Elrond.” Bilbo spoke to Mithrandir. “Oh, I do not think he is here to seek council. More wish to go every day, I rather think that Gildor is here to escort them through the lands. Baron is leaving these shores, is he not, Morwen?” Mithrandir spoke to her and a stitch slipped from her needle. She paused and glared at him swiftly, before picking it up again and staying silent, bent over the work, almost crouched, unwilling to speak. But Taron furrowed his brows and bent over his knees to look at the Perelleth and see her clouded gaze.</p><p>“Baron is leaving?” He repeated the question of the wizard, who had rested his pipe on his knees and looked at Morwen with saddened eyes. “Forgive me my friend, I did not know that you had not yet made public the news.”  She lifted her hand and forgave the wizard with a wink of it, dismissing it, yet he still stared ponderingly at her and placed two strings together. She had not chosen yet. He leaned back and rearranged his grey robes, watching her turn to Taron and speaking swiftly and agitatedly with him.</p><p>“Yes, he is.” She muttered.</p><p>“Why did you not tell?”</p><p>“What should I have said?” She asked Taron and bitterness dwelled in her heart, bubbling on her tongue, and lashing out with it. “That he will go, and I shall stay? Is it not as it is always?” And almost choked on the bitterness she had not known before, that she possessed. Deep it sat in her heart and shadows clad the beating flesh for it was only flesh now and ephemeral.  She clenched her jaw, her teeth grinding and her soul wringed dry by the sorrows, painfully tight. “Forgive me, I am tired and should go to bed.” She spoke and gathered her needles, stuck them in the skein and lifted off her buttocks to bow towards the Halflings. Towards Mithrandir she extended a hand, reaching from her heart to his, and for the elf she gave a slightly lesser bow, before her feet carried her out the hall and into the darkness of the corridors.</p><p>Taron turned to his chief and friend and even looked at the blond elf for a moment, startled at the hurt reaction of the Perelleth. For Taron it had been a simple question, simple enough to answer in a sentence or two and he would have gladly cheered her up, hugged her and helped her overcome the loss of her brother. Even if it would take years and years – but then Taron was ready to do that but was butthurt by the feisty reaction, he had just been on the receiving end of. For a moment he debated going after her, his knitting needles already resting on the floor besides him – but Aragorn reached over and held him back.</p><p>“Give her time.” He spoke and Halbarad growled, dragging his fingers over his face and rubbing his eyes tiredly and annoyed. “Time is all she has; all she has had for the past Age. If you give her anymore, she will grow roots.” He muttered and Taron exhaled a shallow breath.</p><p>“Why so bitter Halbarad?” Asked Aragorn across the room and Legolas shifted uncomfortably between the two men, feeling as if he was intruding in business that he had no part of. Swiftly he stood and excused himself, flying over the rails himself and into the trees, for he needed a whiff of fresh air and not the quarrels of men. Halbarad followed him with glooming eyes and a jagged wretch crossed his face. He chose not to answer his chief’s question but rather glower inside, the thoughts nagging on him steadily. But Aragorn did not understand, nor would Morwen, or Taron for that matter. They cared little for immortality, but Halbarad, he could not forget. He simply could not forget.</p><p>“You desire immortality and yet do not understand what it includes.” Spoke Mithrandir finally, his voice deep and dark and mournful, with pity he looked upon Halbarad, ridiculing him and the man hissed and gnarled and felt anger stirring from deep within. Oh, it was the arrogance of immortals he dreaded most, their forced wisdom upon each and every living creature upon Arda.</p><p>“I wish not to take lectures from you Mithrandir – not tonight.” He spoke and turned his face, so it was pointing away from the company and rather shadowed and Aragorn watched him worriedly, for he had never seen Halbarad so weary and angry before. Not that Halbarad was a very equilibrate man, no he was impulsive and cool and cared little for nobility or graces. He had grown up on farms and in the woods, where there had been little time for such things anyways and Aragorn did not reproach him for it, for he had become what life had formed of him.</p><p>…</p><p>Morwen had found a quiet place to hide away, her feet tumbling swiftly over the grey stone, the coolness ebbing her away and steadying and she felt craving for a deep sea or pond, stealthy and steady water to look upon.</p><p>Her heart had beat to the same tune as Baron since their birth, to a steady rhythm, thum, thum, thum, over and over and over. The sudden thought of losing it, of losing the anchor to herself and her heartbeat scared her and feared her and made her hard and unfair and fleeing like a haunted deer, chased by a Ringwraith.</p><p>She would miss him so deeply, she wondered if her heart would be torn in two. A solemn tear collared from her eyes, and she felt her heart thumb harder against her bosom, beating against the ribbed cage of bone.</p><p>Together they had grown up and yet they had always been alone. For hundreds of years, there had only been Baron to call her family, the middle of her life and being, her visits to Imladris and him had been what had carried her across the days and weeks.</p><p>And then he placed his roots upon different place than her, finding peace and home in Imladris, really settling there. And Imladris was not her home – nor her hut in the Angle. Really, he was still the closest thing she had to a home.</p><p>He had always been a melancholic child, grave in his youth and shattered as a young adult. He grew up amongst men and yet he was not one, always feeling as if the piece he posed did not fit completely. He stayed for Aglaril, for she had lost most and he did not want her to lose all. But with her death, he was set free and on the loose and he had left her behind, in Annúminas.</p><p>She laughed cynically. What Irony, the only place she had ever wanted to call home, now sunken beneath stormy waves.</p><p>Annúminas lay on the shores of the great lake Evedim, filled with water from Emyn Uial, coming down in subtle streams. The towers of the citadel had stretched daringly across the sleek mirror that posed the surface the lake and they almost dipped their sharp edges in the water. It was bitterly freezing in winter and sweat drenching warm in summer, bone cooking almost and insufferable. But when the lake froze and the waterfalls of the hills had stopped beating down and everything was still, she had relished the view of seemingly frozen time.</p><p>She had grown up with the rushing of the water in her ears and when she had come to Fornost in the middle of the third age, it had all seemed too eerily quiet.</p><p>The houses hung carven into stone, dug deep into the side of the hills and soft mountains. In the summer blood finned jumping bass wriggled their way through the streams and up the flowing bodies of water to return to their breeding grounds, their red tails shimmering in the light of day and glittering in silver moonshine.</p><p>Oh, Morwen remembered it all, the arcades that stretched over the lake shore, the white arches cooling in summer, shading out the blistering sun. She had walked underneath them many times, when the days had grown too stuffy and the air too thick. It had been under these arches, that she had first seen one of the fair folk – dark and beautiful but also hard looking and cold, oh he had looked so cold. He had not been particularly beautiful of noble, well not that she could have known then. Then he had been the fairest thing she had ever lain eyes upon and she would never forget the darkling shimmering hair, that had been braided like a carpet on the back of his head and held together by wind and weather and the immaculate propositions of the hair structure.</p><p>Aglaril had reprimanded her for her goggling and Morwen had hid behind her back anxiously. As beautiful as the Ellon had been, he had also frightened her.</p><p>Morwen stilted her chuckle with her hand and gazed over the cool forest splayed beneath her. She was not here to relish memories of forgotten days, but rather to discuss what might be in the future – or at least come to terms with what might be.</p><p>Really it was bizarre, she lived amongst people and called the Dúnedain hers, they were her people. And yet she was not ready to share their fate. She could not accept the gift of mankind. Not that she did not grasp the concept of dying, she had seen it more than once, and buried many of her comrades in tombs of earth and stone, roots and sorrow. She had held guard at their graves and watched through the night and did not fear Mandos or his mate Vairë.</p><p>But who ask for advice? For Baron had known since earliest childhood, had never strayed from path and known always. He would not understand her inner conflict – no she did him not right, he understood, but he could not help her lessen the burden of choice any less. But who else ask? Elladan and Elrohir? No, she did not know them enough. The lord Elrond? Maybe, but then something held her from asking him, he frankly scared her at times. Maybe Aragorn…</p><p>She buried her head in her hands and prayed that Eru may grant her more time. It was not her first prayer of such sort and it would not be the last, for he had given her all the time and she feared the day, he would not grant her more.   </p><p>…</p><p>Later that night, Legolas sat hurdled in the trees, wrapped in his silken cloak, the velvet, even now shimmering in the light of the moon. Aragorn and he had found themselves mingled across the Halflings and with Mithrandir. Then the other of his people had appeared and at last the Dúnadaneth.</p><p>His legs were folded before his chest and he was wedged in the fork of a tree, his gaze facing eastwards, to where, over the Hithaeglir, his own homelands lie. The trees here were old and tall, and yet they were not the same, for they were not gnarled and twined and grew over each other. The wood was not thick and full of bushes and other plants, but riddled with tall pines and oaks that grew straight and fierce. His heart longed for the gnarled trees, that knew so much to tell and yet had ceased to speak now. Their minds poisoned and roots rotting, corrupted by darkness and evil. Now it was malevolent and hurtful and yet Legolas could not stop to love it.</p><p>And then Aragorn had brought that wretched creature to the woodland realm, crawling and splaying and gnawing on the bark of trees when angry. He had been clever and done it to anger the wood elves and eventually he had grown pitiful with the creature, for it had been locked in the dungeons of his father for weeks without light. He had taken it out with guards and let it climb onto a tree and there he had stayed and refused to come down. One day the guards had decided to simply wait it out, for they were weary of climbing after him and get bitten by the creature. And there he had escaped.</p><p>The creature spoken of, went by the name of Gollum.</p><p>Legolas shivered at the thought and pulled his cloak tighter around his slender body. Guilt flowed through his veins and made the tree beneath him wince. He placed a soothing hand on it and calmed himself down with closed eyes and listening ears. The halls of the eleven Lord were far away and Legolas could only hear faint whispers of the life inside. A fox patted around a tree and snickered, before catching a small bird. The ragging teeth scrapped over the bone and tore apart tendons and feathers. Soft steps pounded over the floor beneath him – or rather a little bit further down, near the stream. Legolas wedged himself out of the tree fork and turned around to peek through the branches.</p><p>Below he beheld an uncloaked figure, their feet sinking into the deep morass that had been left behind by the rain a day earlier. In their hands they carried a candle, lit but with no casket, and they swaddled around quite a bit, until they had found a little clearing by the water. They set the candle down, digging it into the morass and looked to the stars. Slow and soft murmurs rose to his treetop and he recognized the voice as being female and of Morwen, Dúnadaneth.</p><p>She cowered over the body of water, almost slack and Legolas thought of disappearing, but the tree was comfortable, and he could not hear what she way saying. He had not intruded. He leaned back against the tree and blurred his tired eyes. The sound lulled him in and made him sleepy and he decided that a bed of forest and greens, wedged in the fork of a tree would be just as good as any bed. Besides, he felt more at ease here, than in the halls of Lord Elrond.</p><p>Legolas nuzzled deeper into his cloak and sighed; the sound carried away on the wind.</p><p>That night, all that watched over Legolas of the woodland realm, were the trees, the wind, and a small blackbird.</p>
<hr/><p>Author's notes: </p><p><a href="#_ftnref1" id="_ftn1" name="_ftn1">[1]</a> The river locking in the Angel with the Bruinen. The Angel is a strip of land beneath Imladris, where the Dúnedain have set camp after the destruction of Arthedain.</p><p><a href="#_ftnref2" id="_ftn2" name="_ftn2">[2]</a> The Burrow-Downs are where Frodo and the Hobbits got stuck by the barrowwraiths and were almost killed. They lay between Bree and the lands of Tom Bombadil and once were ancient sites of burial for the Dúnedain.</p><p><a href="#_ftnref3" id="_ftn3" name="_ftn3">[3]</a> Aragorn is called strider by the Halflings numerous times during the books. It is the name given to him by the people of Bree.</p><p><a href="#_ftnref4" id="_ftn4" name="_ftn4">[4]</a> Edain are a group of men that are counted wiser and better than he people of the mountains for example. Mostly they are those who were at some point entwined with the elves.</p><p><a href="#_ftnref5" id="_ftn5" name="_ftn5">[5]</a> <em>My friend</em> in elvish </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Chapter 4</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Small streaks of light woke Morwen the next day. She had lain, curled to a ball, in the small bed and had dreamt of the silverish fish of Annúminas. A small pit of sorrow and melancholy opened in her heart and she leaned against the back board of the bed, cradling her legs, and closing her eyes to relish the feeling that the swarm had stirred in her. After she had finished pining, she placed a strand of her hair behind her ear and opened her eyes anew.</p><p>Yestereve she had been at the Bruinen and begged Vairë for the gift of aid. To understand and to lessen the burden on Aragorn’s shoulder. But she had not responded and Morwen feared that what once had been of Vairë in middle-earth, was bound to the Barrow-Downs.</p><p>It was ancient folklore, that Vairë loved the graves of men. She was the weaver of worlds, capturing everything that had been and some of what might be. She liked the preserved faces of the dead, for then she needn’t haste as much whilst portraying their faces to hang into Mandos halls.</p><p>Morwen crawled out of bed and mustered her braids in the mirror, hung besides the door. It looked astray and wild, not at all orderly. Sighing she opened the clasps and brushed it out, falling just below her breasts, unruly and with subtle curls at times. She had not forgotten Halbarad’s word from last night and therefore braided her hair sternly. Two braids on the top of her hair, left and right of her parting and one on each side of her temples. Then she picked a pair of soft leggings and a green tunic, over which she layered another woollen one.</p><p>None of her companions were steering yet and so she took her knitting and wandled down the early corridor, towards the desolated library. Oh she could fathom where most elves were to be found this early – well it was not early to them. Not that it mattered anyways. Most of them had stirred at the first crack of dawn, watching the sun rise eagerly and were now surely bathing in the warm light. Like cats, she smiled.</p><p>The library of Imladris was tall and filled with books, manuscripts, and rolls. Leaves had strayed in, rolling over the floor mockingly and with little care, as if they were not to be differently treated from the pages, filled with script, as if they had the same right to be there as them. Well in a way, they had.</p><p>Her boots made no noise on the stone floor that was carved with runes of eldest Tengwar. It had not been simply built by Elrond the Peredhel, but by Elrond the Noldorin<a href="#_ftn1" id="_ftnref1" name="_ftnref1">[1]</a>, who walked this earth for more than three ages. In the last rows of the library, as far away from the door, there was a small shelf, let into the wall. Green<a href="#_ftn2" id="_ftnref2" name="_ftnref2">[2]</a> upon green stood the books there, their backs turned to Morwen and the golden letters lurking. It was her writing – and a little bit of the Lord Elrond’s. But most of it, was out of her feather. She placed the knitting on a stand and let her fingers glide over the soft leather, that was not smooth but suede. Then she grabbed for the last one in row, flipped it open and searched for the next bare page. A plot of ink stood nearby and with it a feather. She checked it and deemed it sharp enough, before setting the quill onto virgin pages.</p><p>
  <em>East and West, South and North, </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Wander feet, upon mountain slope, </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Between forest green and pillars hewn, </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Hills of mist and lakes so deep, </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Upon ruins and marsh, hummus and under Ark. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Wander, wander, stranger far. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Across the plains of Arnor, </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Where grass is green and flowers bloom, </em>
</p><p>
  <em>We call none home</em>
</p><p>
  <em>For Wanderers we are, </em>
</p><p>
  <em>And wanderers we shall be, </em>
</p><p>
  <em>For all eternity. </em>
</p><p>Halbarad of the Dúnedain</p><p>Morwen smiled and lay down her quill. It had not been the only one she had written down this day, but the most memorable and the one she would hold dearest in her heart. She strayed sand over the page and mustered it a last time, before letting her fingers graze over the name and the verses. He may not have eternity in flesh, but in pages and that needed to suffice.</p><p>Then she shut it and placed the tomb back on the shelf, where it blended with the others, creating a wall of green. She had lost count over the age, had written down life over life, tale over tale and the number had faded – into forgottenness. But now, as she counted them, there sat 25. Just as many kings as Arnor had had. A subtle smile ghosted over her lips and she grasped for the first tomb, the first book she had filled, the first of the annals of the Dúnedain.</p><p>The line of Elendil lay beneath her fingers, proud as day and now ending with Aragorn, son of Arathorn.</p><p>This first volume she had dedicated entirely to ancestoral lines. She had written down kings and heirs, name upon name, had filled line upon line.</p><p>One day, or so she hoped, the line would continue from Aragorn. Now there lay only bare his name. She hoped that with his name, she could begin anew a line of kings. Proud on their carven throne, just and caring towards their people, a king of old.</p><p>“You are not the only one to wish for better days, Morwen of the Dúnedain.” The voice of Lord Elrond sounded in her neck and made her twist, wondering if it were pure wisdom or if he had seen it with the gift of foresight.</p><p>Mithrandir stood beside him, his grey and benevolent presence, bent with age, was only but a trick cast over his true self. She wondered how Elrond must see him for he was gifted the power to look beyond the tricks of many, even of the Istari.<a href="#_ftn3" id="_ftnref3" name="_ftnref3">[3]</a> Maybe it was not a gift though, but a simple trait acquired with old age.</p><p>Elrond mustered her with pity and Morwen closed the book, bowing to Elrond and the grey wizard and paying her respects. He was suckling on his pipe and looked so manlike, that she forgot how old he truly was. But she did not do him just and there she was just like any of the men, fooled by looks all too easy.</p><p>“It is no wish but hope.” She said slowly, the wizard nodded pensively. “Then hope it shall be, leave us alone please.” He asked of her and she placed the book back in the shelf, grasped her ball of yarn and the half-finished sock and decided to sit before Taron’s door and wait for him, whilst knitting her socks and relishing the warmth of the sun.</p><p>Mithrandir looked after the woman, puffing his pipe until he was sure she was out of reach. Which was much further away than anyone would guess.</p><p>He stepped towards the reeling of the library and looked down. Beneath Frodo and Sam were standing. The latter was packing his rucksack, his face longing for home and the words that drifted to the wizard spoke of nothing other than that longing. Gandalf was perturbed, that he had to tear away the homely Hobbits from their beloved Hobbit holes and had torn them into the fate of the world. He had bestowed a great deal upon them – but he had had no other choice. Nonetheless he wished that he could have done better – could have done differently. But what was done, was done.</p><p><a href="#_ftn4" id="_ftnref4" name="_ftnref4">[4]</a>“His strength returns.” Said Elrond, who had stepped besides the Istari and cast a glance himself upon the Hobbits. Gandalf hummed and then spoke: “That wound will never fully heal. He will carry it for the rest of his life.”</p><p>A wound bestowed upon the Hobbit with a Morgul blade. Oh yes, Elrond remembered, for he had been the one to heal the sturdy Halfling. It had been agonizing and almost undoable and if Aragorn had not taken up the Athelas, the Halfling would be passed into the shadows now. Gandalf looked at the Perellon and sighed, guilt furrowing through his ancient face, riddled with ages upon this world.</p><p>“And yet, to have come so far, still bearing the ring, the Hobbit had shown extraordinary resilience to its evil.” Elrond stepped away, away from Gandalf, away from the Hobbits and the waterfall besides the library, towards a carafe, filled with wine. There he poured two glasses and extended one to Gandalf.</p><p>“It is a burden he should never have had to bear. We can ask no more of Frodo.” For Gandalf could see on Elronds face the plan mapping out. Oh no, if it went after Gandalf’s liking, they would already be on their way home, safe and sound, on a swift horse, escorted by the Lord Glorfindel or Elladan and Elrohir. But even with this being his most ardent wish, he could sense in his mind, that it was not the wish of the world, nor that of Elrond.</p><p>“Gandalf, the enemy is moving, Sauron’s forces are massing in the east, his eye is fixed on Rivendell and Saruman, you tell me has betrayed us. Our list of allies grows thin.” Elrond mused and turned to the wizard. For whom would he turn to once the elves were gone. The world was growing to dark for his people, they yearned for softer shores and lighter days. The last homely home was not as homely anymore. Once upon a time, guards had not been necessary at the entries and borders of his realm – but now? They were littered all over, hunting orcs and other wretched creatures, coming home fewer and fewer and straying down the borders longer and longer.</p><p>With the loss of Saruman the white, the narrow path truly grew thin. Gandalf was a mighty wizard, but against Saruman’s forces and those of Barad-dûr, not even he had much to say.</p><p>“His treachery runs deeper than you know. As foul craft, Saruman has crossed orcs with goblin men, he’s breeding an army in the caverns of Isengard, an army that can move in sunlight and cover great distance at speed. Saruman is coming for the ring.” Gandalf spoke the last words gravely, eetchign them into Elrond’s ears.</p><p>“This evil cannot be concealed by the power of the elves. We do not have the strength to fight both Mordor and Isengard.” Elrond paused, for Gandalf had turned his back to him and slowly lurched towards the waterfall and the balcony, towering above. “Gandalf, the ring cannot stay here.” Elrond finally said, determinedly and absolute. Too little of his people were left to put up a stand against the forces of the dark. Besides, many would not want to. They would rather leave these shores for Aman and leave men, dwarves, and all other creatures to their own fate. “This peril belongs to all middle earth, they must decide now, how to end it. The time of the elves is over, my people are leaving these shores. Who will you look too when we have gone? The dwarves? They hide in their mountains seeking riches, caring nothing for the troubles of others.”</p><p>“It is in men, that we must place our hope.” Gandalf said and Elrond hissed.  </p><p>…</p><p>Taron stepped out of his door and stumbled over a casually resting Morwen, who was now well into her second sock and turning the gusset heel. Taron had brushed his hair and it almost looked neat, Morwen remarked. He gazed at Morwen’s clothes, before leading the pace to breakfast, his stomach grumbling already, thinking of the prospect of bacon and eggs. He doubted though, that there would be any bacon, at least not in the morning. Even his stomach grumbled for home. Elves had peculiar breakfast habits, rather eating fruit and mushed grains. It was sweet and not at all hearty and Taron was not used to it.</p><p>Truly he longed for a bacon porridge, cooked by Noora. Or some of her flatbreads, a pint of homebrewed ale and his three daughters on his lap. Maybe that was not so far away, and Aragorn would soon let him go home. But for now, he was stuck with fruit and pulverized grain, drowned in honey. Where they had so much honey from, was questionable – probably some elven trickery again, probably they even called themselves the friends of bees and talked to them.</p><p>The sweet stickiness made him miserable.</p><p>Morwen stopped and stretched her slender body in the light of day. “Do you know anything new of the council?” She asked and looked at Taron, mustering the homesick face he sported.</p><p>“No, but as you know, I have not seen Halbarad or Aragorn today.” He replied. Morwen was glad for the openness of Imladris, the few windows that existed were purely there to protect from the weather. Roots and trees grew over the white stone and dug deep into the structures, nature and elven made architecture flowing neatly into each other, so neatly that one could not tell where one thing stopped, and another began. Truly a masterpiece of art – she remarked it every day.</p><p>Morwen liked the roughness of nature. It could be unforgiving but at the same time nurturing and beautiful, harsh and cold but beautiful and soothing. She missed the wild snow and the cold feet – well now she did, she knew once on the road again, she would miss nothing more than a warm bed and dry feet. But now, in Imladris, all she wanted was get back to the forest and sleep under the plains of Arthedain. She had not done so in years, for the orc packs coming down from the Hithaeglir made it unsafe and perilous. It was the wandering man’s curse.  </p><p>“I miss it.” She glanced at Taron, a melancholic smile on her lips and he chuckled.</p><p>“The dunes and the clouds, the gras and the jagged hills, those uncanny roots that grow underneath whatever spot you chose to sleep and dig painfully into your back. I miss it too – soon.” Taron promised and Morwen ripped herself away from the warmth. The man almost collided with an ancient man, with a long and white beard and as many furrows in his face, as the Anduin possessed rivulets. He apologized and spun around the elderly, who did not seem to have a care in the world and entered the dining halls.</p><p>He picked the same spot as usual, nestled at the back of the room, where he could see both the high table and the entrance. It was a spot designated to the guards of Imladris. But they willingly shared their table with the rangers of the north. The similarity they shared was uncanny – always observing, always weary, even here, where it was safe, and they were off duty.</p><p>She spotted Baron and motioned him to sit with her. Unwilling the half elf came nearer, settling opposite of Morwen. He did not like Taron very much, for Taron was honest and mortal, rude at times and rough. And he carried his heart on his tongue. Not that Baron was a lying bastard – maybe a bastard, but not a lying one anyways. But something about Taron deeply unsettled the calm elf.</p><p>“When will you sail to the holy lands?” She asked, missing anything else she could speak about, that thought all consuming and nagging.</p><p>The dark-haired Perellon shrugged. “Soon, this year still, all I need is Master Erestor’s leave.” He pondered calmly and shoot a glance at his superior, who sat comfortably next to his elven lord. Then he grabbed for the honey and dripped more into the mushy grain. “When will you leave Imladris again? Return to the wild or the Angel?” He asked and this time Morwen shrugged, looking out for Aragorn, before her sitting a bowl of fruit.</p><p>But Aragorn was nowhere to be found. “We are waiting for Aragorn’s orders.” She spoke. “I can only hope that he does not fancy to send us off again, I really do not wish to spend my winter lying in a ditch near the Hithaeglir.” Taron nodded agreeingly. “But I do not think he will send us back to the Shire, it is now well watched over by Isilan and Lair. It shall all depend on the council of Elrond.”</p><p>Halbarad had appeared and settled next to Baron. “Tell us Taron, how many holes did you already put in your socks.” He mocked lovingly, reaching for his own bowl of mush, mustering it disapprovingly before sweetening it too and hoping that his teeth would not root from the honey. He was not built as elves were and could not snack on the forbidden sweetness without consequence.</p><p>“Normally Noora will knit my socks.” The other muttered under his breath and watched Halbarad disgustedly. He rather much fancied his teeth and hated getting them pulled out. He had already lost the last of his teeth to fouling and it had hurt like the bite of a bitch in heat and rage.</p><p>Aragorn had now followed Halbarad and claimed the spot besides Taron, overlooking the crowd. He opted for something nonsweet, which was in that case a dry piece of Lembas. He did not look very happy with it but did not complain and Morwen bowed back over her bowl, chuckling into her breakfast. A twin of Elrond’s sunk onto the bench next to Baron and Morwen wondered if they were now the orphanage on duty.</p><p>All the lost men and elves, dwarves if they want and Halflings too may join us! Come here you homeless people.</p><p>She chuckled at the thought.  </p><p>It was Elrohir and his hair tightly braided, so that no strand fell out of it, Morwen suspected he had helped with a little bit of oil, to smooth out every single flyaway. He wore a simple leather chest plate and a light tunic, even if it was autumn. “We will practice afterwards, in the ring. Bring your rangers.” He nodded towards Taron, Morwen and Halbarad and greeted them hastily. He had not seen them very often, but knew who they were, for he often strayed the woods with the rangers. “Accompany Aragorn, will you. We cannot beat the old man to mush. It would be unfair, for the ancient has grown slow.” He winked at Halbarad and chuckled into his non existing beard. “You look almost pleasing to the eye, when not covered under a mask of dirt.” Morwen giggled and Taron gruffed. “Well at least we do not need half an hour to do our hair every morning, do we Elrohir?” Aragorn mocked back and received a hit against the shoulder, which made him burst his water all over Baron’s plate. The later looked consternated at the spectacle, before shaking himself, pushing away his bowl and disappearing with flying robes.</p><p>“Not a word.” Morwen said and looked after her brother, silencing Halbarad’s mean comment. But Elrohir was not so gallant. “What do we have here? A protective sister?” and a malicious grin spread over his full lips, leaving him behind less beautiful than he had been before. She glared at the Ellon and tilted her head. “Of course, one must protect the brains of your father’s household, for you are it surely not.” A mean and challenging grin spread over Elrohir’s lips. “Very well then, Dúnadaneth, in the ring, we shall establish that.” He challenged and Morwen shuddered, glanced at the Perellon and then had to accept.</p><p>Taron jeered and then grinned contently. Elrohir’s face lit up more and for a moment it looked like the epitome of Morgoth, dark and sinister and full of malicious excitement.</p><p>Morwen had not spent a great deal of time in Imladris the past century, for before Halbarad and Taron, she had wandled through the woods with Arahad, who had despised the elves. Not because he hated them entirely, oh no – the cause of despair was the refusal of an Elleth. A very beautiful Elleth, but Arahad had never spoken of her name and Morwen could only guess. Nonetheless the refusal seemed to have injured him deeply and left a large indent on his ego. Ever since he had avoided Imladris to a great deal and often had insisted, that they should not visit it.</p><p>What had gotten into his mind, to pose after an Elleth, she could not fathom. Not even now.</p><p>“Will you ask Nimloth?” Aragorn glanced over his foster brother and at a table far behind, where many Elleth sat clattering besides each other. Elrohir turned around and stared at the beautiful Elleth, with golden hair and dark skin. He hesitated and then looked gravely at his foster brother. “I would, if I knew how.” And Morwen remarked, that no matter how beautiful an Elleth was, Arwen Undómiel was fairer. Elrohir looked at her once more and then disappeared, just as swiftly as he had appeared. Halbarad laughed darkly.</p><p>“By Vairë am I glad, to no be an Elf.” He grunted and shovelled more of the mush into his mouth, pulling a desperate face. “Eons of time and yet shameful as a virgin.” Morwen cackled and Aragorn shook his head. “Well binding is very serious to them.” He shrugged.</p><p>“Yes, but why? I mean come on, Aragorn, you sit amongst beautiful people all day long, and you do not wish to shag every once in a while?” Aragorn shrugged and decided that it was more fun to pry after Arwen and follow the lady with his eyes, as if someone had stuck them to her figure with fish glue. “Besides, look at Morwen, I see her googling often and she is a half elf. Oh, and don’t tell me Mor, that you do not, it is simply rather limited, for you sit in the thickets with Taron all year round, covered in dirt and orc blood.”</p><p>“I didn’t say anything, I am surprised that you did not try take an Elleth to your rooms yet.” She raised her hands and chuckled. Taron giggled like a little child and almost suffocated on his breakfast. “Look at the elves, beautiful, immortal and muscular. Also, they do not reek and do not have such foul mouths. If I were an elven maiden, I would not pick him either. You are really no sight for sore eyes.”</p><p>Halbarad humped and bowed deeper over his bowl, almost finished and scraped it clean. The consternated faces all around made her smile and the red ears were proof of the rough words coming out of the rangers mouths. She had long lain down the embarrassment, spending her time amongst men. The first year she had spent in the armed camps of the army, she had spent it with constantly red ears.</p><p>Before she had scarsly spoken to men other than her king, some cousins, and her brother, had not been allowed to be alone with them. Then she had spent her time alone amongst them – now she did not flinch anymore at the lowliest comment, even dished them out herself.</p><p>Ohm what irony it was, now looking back at it. For eons she had been conditioned to believe, that spending any time with a man alone, was the end of the world, that she would burn in shame and misery. Her reputation needed to be uncompromised and flawless.</p><p>And then the plague had struck down in Cardolan<a href="#_ftn5" id="_ftnref5" name="_ftnref5">[5]</a> and had wiped out its entire population, the Witch-king coming soon after, his armies marching through the land and burning everything to the ground. Raping and destroying what was in their way, for their goal was not destroying the crops and lands, but the people of Arnor.</p><p> And suddenly her reputation had not been important anymore. Unmarried and not essential to the blood line, she had found herself amongst men.</p><p>Alone amongst men.</p><p>The first week in recruit camp had been brutal, she had bleed and cried and suffered through humiliation. She had popped her first blister and peeled off her first sunburn, had learnt what too little food and water meant and only one privy for the entire company.</p><p>When she had lain eyes upon her first orc, she had shat herself. Had lain in a ditch by the battle field and cried, covered in pee and shit – all ungraceful and scared, like any other recruit. Maybe fear was a good thing.</p><p>But the first week had passed and then a month and even if it did not grow any better, after a year, she had gotten used to it – the light leather armour, the white star upon her chest and the grey cloaks. She had gotten used to the food and the men’s dirty jokes and had grown to like the grip of the bow in her fingers, enjoy the calluses upon her hands rather than weeping over them. She had learnt that they were now bruised and hard, with gruel nails and torn flesh, but that they were not less skilled and less worthy. She had learnt how to take a life, how to slaughter orcs and move in the dark unseen.</p><p>And in the second year, she had no longer felt like Morwen of Nenuial. Her identity shattered to pieces and stored deep within her, pieces still nurtured and now bearing on her chest in the form of a white gem.</p><p>It was all, that was left of her former life – well besides the skills she still possessed. One did not simply forget 1000 years of embroidery. How painful it was at first and how many times she had pricked herself. But with time, she had created ornated carpets and dresses, stitched upon the saddles of kings and had ornated the gowns of queens.</p><p>She had not touched a loom in many years.</p><p>“Morwen!” Aragorn spoke loudly and the dark-haired Perelleth remerged from her thoughts and memories. She blinked and then looked at the Chieftain. “I said that I will bring you some yarn later to knit me socks?” She nodded agreeingly and finished her breakfast, before Taron stood up and went on his way too.</p><p>Morwen jogged lazily down the corridor, following Taron’s large steps to her room.</p><p>There she placed on her chest the polished leather, glooming now again and most scratches patched with wax and varnish. She trapped the two straps over her shoulders and closed the buckles, then she laced the sides tightly, so it moulded to her body. The necklace she fished out of the armour, then she bound the armguards to her wrists and forearms. She had etched dark runes into the leather and even if they were now scratched, she still remembered their placement, still remembered their meaning.</p><p>Over her chest she lay the strap of the quiver and attached two cords to her harness, the bottom slung around her belt. It made it easier to run. Then she grasped for her daggers and their sheaths, wrapping parts of them around her thigh and then the other looped onto her belt. She could also tie them together and carry them on her back and often whilst going to battle she did so, for it was easier to crouch then. But in the bushes, she preferred the blades in easy reach, especially when she lay flat on her stomach.</p><p>Her bow lay unstrung on a chest of drawers, the cord wrapped tightly around the wood. She would have greatly loved to see the great war bows of the Númenorean, carved and smithed out of steel, mighty and feared. Oh, even now, she wished to lay eyes upon one – but the knowledge to create had been lost with the drowning of the island.</p><p>But now was not the time to think of the old war bows, but of new arrows, socks and mending her boots. Quite simply the tasks that life had to offer to her. Oh, and there was an ugly tear in her dirty tunic, that she still had not washed – she would do so later today or maybe tomorrow.</p><p>Morwen beheld of her little pouch, sitting next to the bow. She would take them both, for she needed to fletch new arrows and maybe shoot some more. In the raids of the past half year, she had lost many of them, broken and crashed, many feathers torn off and shafts splintered.</p><p>…</p><p>“My master asks for your forgiveness; he is occupied and cannot attend training today.” Morwen tore her eyes from the two dozen shafts, lain prepared before her. She had polished them and waxed them, before sanding off a small bit, where the feathers would go. The Perelleth had found a table under a roof, opened towards the training grounds, but still sheltered, so the tools would not get too wet, even under heavy rain. Next to her had settled an Elleth, proud looking and firm, her hands swifter than Morwen’s. She had flinched when the Elf had started working, her hands too fast for Morwen’s taste and growing even faster, when seeing Morwen’s gaze.</p><p>“What a pity, well next time then.” Actually, it was not a pity at all, for she had already feared the harsh strikes of Elrohir and his fierce temper. She was rather glad and slowed her hands down, relishing the soft brushing of the feathers and their sharp edges, trimming them uniformly and bending the shafts slightly, for feathers flew better if a little bit twisted.</p><p>With dips of tar, she placed the feathers upon the shaft and then bound them with sturdy twine of flax fibres. Morwen raised her eyes and blinked at the sun – she longed for Baron.</p><p>…</p><p>She found him crammed into the corner of a study, together with an accountant, a quartermaster and Lindir.</p><p>She had returned to her chambers beforehand, lain down her weapons and taken up her dirty clothes to go washing and mending – she had found another tear next to the knee, where the seams had given in.</p><p>Baron followed her wordlessly down the corridors and to the washing house, where a few Elleth and Ellon were already doing the daily washing of the house, scrubbing the linens and clothes of the household. On one side a small basin with ash<a href="#_ftn6" id="_ftnref6" name="_ftnref6">[6]</a> was placed and Morwen readily soaked her leggings, before rubbing a generous amount of it over the filthy fabric.</p><p>Baron pulled off his leather shoes and let his feet dangle into the river, just underneath a willow tree besides the washing house. His hair was not braided and fell into his face, glooming softly and maroon in the sun. His hair shimmered redder than Morwen’s, being more of Tûrdor’s origin. His socks lay curled up in a bundle and he had stuffed them into his shoes, being of a dark burgundy colour.</p><p>His favourite colour, for Baron loved autumn and everything that represented the endless circle of life.</p><p>“The Halfling has awoken today.” Baron spoke and Morwen listened up. She wished to meet the ominous Hobbit, who carried Isildur’s bane and the power of many folks. She wanted to see the ringbearer for herself – and maybe even the ring. But Baron did not think of such things. “Lindir and Erestor are sitting on the nape of the maid’s and servants to get everything ready for tonight’s feast. He has already sent me twice down to the kitchen to tell them to make haste.”</p><p>“Feast?” Morwen asked and looked up from her scrubbing, working on a particularly malicious spot of oil, that probably originated from some bows wax.</p><p>“Yes, to honour the Halfling’s arrival.” He muttered and let his feet stir the water, spritzing water at Morwen. She had rolled up her trousers and stood in the bank of the Bruinen, water floating coolly around her ankles and calves. She had soaked her woollen over tunic and now her coat as well, rubbing ash into them and placing them in the sun so it could bleach out any stains. Then she reached for her washed leggings, extended one end to Baron, and let him hold onto it, whilst she twisted most water out of it, before hanging it over a line in the warm October sun and letting it dry.</p><p>“Nimloth has been out of her mind the entire day, you remember who Nimloth is?” He asked his sister and she halted, thinking before nodding vaguely. “Blond?” She asked and Baron nodded.</p><p>“Yes. She hopes that Elrohir will ask her to the feast. Did Aragorn say anything, I know how shameless they are. And if Elrohir has told him anything, everyone amongst the Dúnedain will know.” He held a finger up under her nose and Morwen chuckled. The reproach was unfair, it was not Aragorn who was a chatterbox but Taron. Elrohir himself was not secretive in the end.</p><p>“Elrohir is too shy to ask her. I overheard his conversation with Aragorn.” Baron giggled stiffly before barking out laughing, some of the maid’s looking at him startled and freakishly. He chuckled once more, into his not existing beard, dropped his shoulders and then said with a smirk on his lips: “I will tell Lindir to let something slip, you know she has been waiting for him to ask her for eons now. If you could have only said something earlier!”</p><p>“Ey! I did not know, contrary to your belief I do not snoop around in every elf’s business.” Morwen wrung out her cloak and placed it upon the line as well, to hang it dry. “If I make it through this winter, I need to renew my hut in the Angel – the roof is leaking, and I have been sleeping before Taron’s hearth the past year. Will you come help me?” She asked and looked at her brother. And it was dumb and stupid, to hope for him to still be here in spring, when the weather is better and the days longer – but in a way she also hoped.</p><p>Baron paused and a shadow ran over his face. He knew exactly when he would leave, Morwen realised and for a moment her brows furrowed, and her heart shrunk – but she did not want to know when. Oh, she did not. Then Baron looked at her and said: “I will be there.” And Morwen knew painfully well, that it was a lie, said to sooth and said upon a wish. But the wish to stay here, where she was too, was smaller and less overwhelming. Nonetheless Morwen said: “Next spring then.” And thought of her leaking roof in the Angel and the nights spent wrapped in blankets before Noora’s fireplace, some dog and a few cats littered around her.</p><p>“If I get to go to the Angel this month, you should come too. For the apple harvest, pumpkins and mushrooms. I could use a hand to stock up a little.” Baron chuckled. “How are you planning on keeping all of it, without a leakproof roof?”</p><p>“The root cellar should be fine.”</p><p>“But where will you sleep? You cannot camp in front of Taron’s hearth for an entire winter. Fix the roof now, or you will have to spend the entire winter in Imladris.” He noted and Morwen had to give him right. It had been rather an idealistic thought. She had left the roof behind when Aragorn had commanded her to look after the Shire. That had been sometime two summers ago. But now, that she was uncertain and might very well return to the Angel for winter, she could not afford a leaking roof.</p><p>“I will get to it, if Aragorn lets me.” She muttered then, sinking next to Baron with crossed legs and overlooking the Bruinen. “Noora has filled my root cellar partially, but she has much to do on her own.” She had forgotten much of what had to be done in the Angel readily.</p><p>Baron recalled her of her homely duties which she did not mind greatly but loved less than watching over the Shire. Besides, there was nothing more tedious than rethatching an entire roof and spending the winter workless and int he darkness of oil lamps and candles. Not that Morwen had many of them left anyways – at least her eyes would make it easier on her and she would only need them inside of the hut, where there were no windows and therefore no moon to light up the spindle and wool, that she so often spun out of boredom for other families. She would have liked to own a few sheep, but she was home too little to look after them.</p><p>“Aragorn should not send you away for so long at a time.” Baron muttered under his breath, displeased.</p><p>“He needs someone to go.” Morwen dangled her legs looser and thought of the thatched roof at home. Really, she did not live there, even considered it less home than Imladris, where Baron was. Often, she used it to pass through or spend the winter if she had had time to prepare for it.</p><p>But that proved often very difficult, for she rarely had time to farm and the few summers she did, she afterwards had more than a few Dúnedain under her roof, returning from their own strides across the landscapes. Before Taron had married Noora, he had often spent his winters under her roof – it had been nice, not being alone, it was easier to heat the house and less lonely at nights in front of the hearth. But now, she had not been there in a while and rethatching the roof would take her quite a bit of time and effort. Luckily, the lands around her house did not go to waste and were cared for by other Dúnedain. But still, the cellar would be rather empty and even if the winter was late this year, she would need something to fill her stomach with.</p><p>“Besides, I don’t have children or a family to look after – it is better to send me than Taron, even if he had to go too.” She muttered.</p><p>“I know, I know, still. It is the same every year. The summer you spend away from home, where you should fill your storage and in winter you sit home or under some other roof, thinking of what to eat next. Don’t think I do not know, why you came during winter.” Morwen did not say anything, for she knew it was true. Winter ten years ago had been too cold and too long and she had been away all spring and summer, over in Rhovanion<a href="#_ftn7" id="_ftnref7" name="_ftnref7">[7]</a>, across the border and in Dale and Mirkwood. Chasing after some lost ranger. She had not found him and in the end had returned home empty handed, with no winter supplies and little time left.</p><p>When the food had run out and she had been left hungry, she had known little help than visiting Baron in Imladris.</p><p>It was not the first of such instances, now at least with Noora and the children, that grew older every day, there were more hands to look after the fields and fill the cellars.</p><p>“Noora planted potatoes this summer, they should be ready now any day.” Baron always brought her back to reality, not so beautiful and inglorious reality, but reality, nonetheless. She would have happily ignored it and came to Imladris in need, without a care in the world, but Baron reminded her of what she still had to do. Maybe now, that he was soon no more, it was even dearer to his heart, that Morwen had a roof over her head and a full belly in winter.</p><p>“Go fetch mushrooms too – and Athelas, something tells me that you will need it soon.” He stated and looked out upon the glimmering water.</p><p>It was now well past noon and the sun already slowly sinking. The feast would start soon. “I will, berries too and maybe I can find some wild roots, probably a lot even – not too well tasting but better than nothing. Maybe also a deer or two, that I can dry and I will go fishing. Carp and trout should be now travelling up stream.” Out of the trout she could make a mean brine, with some salt and apple cider vinegar, that she had set up last autumn. Maybe she could even find some late wild onions and maybe Noora had plucked some carrots out of her garden. Together with potatoes it would feed her well. Maybe Noora would also be happy if she brought her a deer home – probably, for the oldest was not yet old enough to hunt for a deer and Taron had been away all summer.</p><p>“But maybe I will spend the winter away – I am still awaiting Aragorn’s orders.” Baron nodded.</p><p>“If not, I will come visit in winter, for some potatoes and mushroom stew.” He winked at his sister and chuckled. She was no good cook, decent but not good, especially when it came to vegetables. Meats she did well, but vegetables – not so much. Nonetheless she knew her way around a few staple recipes and those she knew well, one of them being potato and mushroom stew, with some type of meat inside. If it were liver or the heart, muscle meat or a piece of leg meat did not greatly matter, for she cooked it long over the stove and tenderized it.</p><p>If Aragorn let her go to the place, she was ought to call home but did not, maybe she would find time to make a new cloak for herself. There were some nasty wolves around the Angel last spring and their fur would make a lovely coat.</p><hr/><p>Author's notes: </p><p><a href="#_ftnref1" id="_ftn1" name="_ftn1">[1]</a> The Noldor are a folk of the Eldar and Elrond is one of them.</p><p><a href="#_ftnref2" id="_ftn2" name="_ftn2">[2]</a> If you watch closely, Arwen holds in the movies a green book, where she quotes the prophecy of Malbeth the seer.</p><p><a href="#_ftnref3" id="_ftn3" name="_ftn3">[3]</a> Istari are the wizards of Middle Earth, they are Maiar, so servants of the Valar.</p><p><a href="#_ftnref4" id="_ftn4" name="_ftn4">[4]</a> Now here I have taken some dialogue from the movies of Peter Jackson. So obviously the speech is not mine, but the rest is.</p><p><a href="#_ftnref5" id="_ftn5" name="_ftn5">[5]</a> Kingdom of Arnor</p><p><a href="#_ftnref6" id="_ftn6" name="_ftn6">[6]</a> Now I know this sounds utterly unappealing, but ash was used to wash garments in the medieval ages. I found that rather disgusting when I discovered that.</p><p><a href="#_ftnref7" id="_ftn7" name="_ftn7">[7]</a> Area of Middle-earth: Mirkwood, etc.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Chapter 5</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The sun had sunk and Morwen had collected her dried clothes to mount back to her chamber and ready herself for the feast tonight. Baron had accompanied her and now sat in her bed, comfortably resting against the lean and chewing on a holm of gras he had plucked from the side of the Bruinen. Of course, he did not need changing, for her was an elf and always dressed to impress. His hair still rested flawlessly against his forehead and with a few strokes of his hands, the folds and dirt had come out of the marron robes he wore.</p><p>Someone had embroidered them with orange thread and spun around the sleeves a pattern of leaves and thorns, where underneath an equally as bright orange chemise piqued out and harmonized with his dark hair. Morwen could hear wavering songs of a lair, carried by the wind to her room and lulling her senses delicately, like the warm breeze of a mid-summernight’s dream. It made her crave the sensation nearer and she hurriedly stripped off her tunic and leggings.</p><p>The blue wool dress had vanished and instead there now hung a gown of brown velvet with equally as orange sleeves as Baron’s. “I had it brought for you.” The older said and smirked, and Morwen closed her mouth again, for she had wondered and already questioned Lindir’s eyes and ears that seemed to be everywhere. A little to everywhere for her taste, if he had sent the gown. Matching her up this perfectly would have simply been a deed to great even for him.</p><p>“You still wear it?” Baron smiled and looked at the stone, hanging from Morwen’s neck, crescented in silver and hung upon a chain. It was bright and white, almost like a moon stone, but at the same time not.</p><p>
  <em>When Isildur was slain by Orcs upon the way, he bore on his head the star of the north and when he fell into the deep waters, all that once was, was lost and therefore Elendils star was lost. It was given by Silmariën and worn for many years, passed from father to son and when Elendil became king of Arnor and Gondor and ruled over all of Eriador, he bore it too. His crown fell one day upon the steps of the Amon Sûl as he bowed down to Aglaril’s feet for she had lost a leather slipper on the stairs and he had reached to place it back on her slender foot. When he bowed the simple band of Mithril fell and out of it broke a jagged piece and Elendil looked upon his wife who wept for she had caused the breaking and felt guilty and he smiled and took up the silver star of which the bottom point was missing and he gave the broken off piece to his steward and commanded that he let make, of elven hand, a crown for Aglaril for the star had spoken and bowed before his queen. And the steward went and the smiths of Gondolin forged a fine band of Mithril for the fair queen and set the stone into her crown and wore the crown until her parting day. </em>
</p><p><em>What is now of either, it is not known, for Elendil’s star is lost and Aglaril’s crown has vanished</em>.</p><p>“I would never part with it – not even here, not even now.” Morwen muttered and stroked over the stone, entrusted to her by Aglaril, with a tenderness he had only ever seen her handle a needle with.</p><p>Isildur had been king too briefly and had not been able to ask for it. It should have been passed on to the next queen, to the wife of Valandil then, third king of Arnor. Should have been safekept upon the head of a crowned queen. But Aglaril had not parted with it, not even when Alfreda had ascended the throne, next to her husband. And Valandil had not had the heart to ask for it and so Aglaril had kept it and with the years, they had forgotten and upon her parting bed, she had given it to Morwen, to keep safe and store away so it would not get lost in time, like the star of Elendil.</p><p>So that at least a small part of what once was, survived the nagging tooth of time.</p><p>Morwen could not bear it anway, to part with what little she had left of Arnor and Aglaril. The stone may not be rightfully hers, but it had been entrusted upon her and she would not give it away – not until the day came where she mustered it to be ready. She wondered if the day ever came.</p><p>And so she had kept it a secret for many years and would keep it a secret for many years to come, if needed. All but from Baron.</p><p>She stepped to Baron, who closed the back of her dress, which was laced with silk ribbons and wondered where from he had acquired the dress. It was not fit for a ranger, but for a princess of the old days. Not for a farmer but a noble lady. And it must have cost about as much. Baron was not a wealthy elf, well not that money truly mattered amongst the fair folk. They did not possess any, at least not in Imladris – how it was held in different realms she did not know. Nonetheless she marveled at the luxury.</p><p>“Where is it from?” Morwen turned to her brother and stowed away the stone beneath the neckline. Elves did not readily forget and Lord Elrond was a steady observer. Baron chuckled. “I had it made for you – as a parting gift.” And the dark-haired Perelleth gripped for the arm of her brother, pressing it firmly, before sinking against his chest and burrowing her head there. He stroked over her braids and stilled. <em>A parting gift</em></p><p>“Come now, we are late and I do not fancy being late.” He mumbled against her hair.</p><p>…</p><p>Baron had taken her arm and escorted her to the great hall, which had now been embellished by golden leaves and red ranks, ivy winding around the stone pillars and benches, and truly, it was autumn in the realm of Elrond. Morwen had taken up a place next to Halbarad and the rangers of the north, where Baron bowed lowly before his sister and then pressed a kiss to her forehead. He smiled and took rank amongst his own, next to Iston, another advisor and accountant of Elrond and subordinate to Erestor. The lord Elrond had many advisors for his many books and his many visitors – most of which despised the elven kind and yet came crawling down the road to Imladris at times of need.</p><p>Taron had been dressed in a silverish tunic and grey leggings, whereas Halbarad carried a green tunic with the star of Arnor on his sleeve, shinning white and burning.</p><p>They spoke little during the meal, for tomorrow was council and the departure fretting upon all their shoulders, wherever their feet may lead them this time. It lay on the balance of fate and the graces of Elrond.</p><p>With winter dawning, Taron pitied Isilan, Lair and Nienna, who would sit around the fields of the Shire, freezing and cold. But truly, in his heart, he would miss the little folk. Not that he did not miss his family, but being a ranger, was his identity. No family would ever change that.</p><p>Well to be fair, he had had little choice in that matter, everyone became a ranger in their life, sooner or later, unless there were still barns or one was a woman. Otherwise, there was little to do in the Angel and the stories told by Morwen and the chieftain, of old and the far south, the northern plains and steep mountains, everyone ventured out eventually.</p><p>Only to find out, that the world was not truly that green and not truly that beautiful, not anymore at least.</p><p>He hoped that Noora had managed with the barns, that she had wielded enough potatoes this season and had the children fish enough trout for an entire winter. He hoped that Rawel had cut enough wood for her mother and the family to get through the winter. She was his oldest and almost 15, so similar to her mother, equally as stubborn and kind-hearted. She adored Morwen and somewhere inside, Taron hoped she would not take off one day and follow the Perelleth to the woods and become ranger too. Not that he could do anything against it, if it were her decision, he would have to let her go – even if it displeased him.</p><p>It was the law and not even Aragorn stood against it.</p><p>Rimeth, his second had little left over for the Perelleth. She was cooler than her sister and little impressed by the doings of the world, loved animals above anything and now looked after the few sheep they had and goats, as well as the farm horse and the mule. She did not speak much, probably had learnt the language of the animals before that of men. She worried him most of all, for he could not read her, not the slightest bit. To him, Rimeth was a riddle on two legs – he loved her dearly, after all she was his flesh and blood, but since she had been born, he had maybe spoken three or four sentences with her.</p><p>The youngest of the lot was his favourite, Nínimiel, barely five. She had blue eyes and was the liveliest of the three, loved the trees and plants – well as much as one could tell of a five year old.</p><p>Taron sighed and smiled at the thought of his women at home and toyed with the locks of hair, enclosed in a small locket above his chest. It carried the strands of all four of them, mingled with each other and keeping him safe, wherever his feet carried him.</p><p>“Taron.” Morwen’s voice racked him out of his dream and back to reality, where he blinked and looked at his companion, who had stood up and motioned at the door to another chamber. Most elves, men, dwarves, and Halflings had already left the great hall and were strolling down that door and into the hall of fire.</p><p>In a hearth flickered a fire, warming the hall, cackling, and crackling and the smell of burning pine wood coated the hall in pleasant flavours. Maybe there were even some herbs hung over the flames, aromatizing the room. Benches and seats had been arranged and in the middle of the hall, near the fire, a chair of carven wood had been placed. A lay of dark wood sat nearby and an elf now lay a pillow of green velvet upon the chair. It was not cold, at least not to the elves in the hall, seated calmly and not differently dressed than in summer. But Morwen could see the shivering Halfling’s and the cool humans. They shuffled closer to the fire, where now elvish bards took up their tunes and the lovely song of harps and lays sounded through the pillared hall.</p><p>Lord Elrond stood bent over a cloaked figure, which was sleeping in the shadows and Morwen guessed it to be but an elvish child that had been lost. She had not seen any since her arrival, nor had there been any in the years prior. Children were but a blessing and rare these days, where few of the fair folk remained and more left these shores every day.</p><p>Morwen could hear the faint sound of the elvish Lord: “Awake little master.” And found there to be the ancient Hobbit Bilbo beneath the folds of a greenish cloak, tarnished between the leaves of pine, oak and birch – but not under the carven stone of elvish halls.</p><p>Although she had heard of the halls of the woodland realm, even if she had never entered them. Where pillars were carved out of growing trees, holding caves of ancient rock. Where even the leaves glowed and lightened the pillared halls. But if such a tale were true, Morwen could not tell, for she had never entered the halls of the great elven king. One was not welcome in the realm of the woodland folk, especially no ranger from the north.</p><p>“Have you seen Aragorn?” Halbarad appeared besides Taron and looked up to the man. He furrowed his brows and indeed, he had not seen his chieftain during the feast, not even when Arwen Undómiel had shown her fair face and glimmered in silver robes and cold face at table.</p><p>He loved the evening star and she loved him. That was all Taron needed to know, all that any of the rangers needed to know. Not that there was ever any fair chance of her marrying Aragorn. Not unless he became king. No, the even star of the fair folk would not walk on fields of crops and between sheep that needed shearing. Her feet would never bear the rough leather of farmer’s boots and there would never be dirt underneath her fingernails.</p><p>Nonetheless, Arwen was fair, fairer than any and startling enough from afar. Besides, she surely possessed other qualities, Taron assessed and tore away his eyes from the evening star. “I haven’t seen him either, not all evening actually.” A sweet melody came to his ears and Taron looked its way, seeing upon wooden chair an Elleth, her full lips chanting of the old days and the Silmaril<a href="#_ftn1" id="_ftnref1" name="_ftnref1">[1]</a>. Of when the days had been lit by the gloom of ancient jewels and before the war of the jewels<a href="#_ftn2" id="_ftnref2" name="_ftnref2">[2]</a>.</p><p>Taron had never loved these stories greatly, for how could it be counted a victory when what one called home, was destroyed? Beleriand<a href="#_ftn3" id="_ftnref3" name="_ftnref3">[3]</a> had been struck to the ground and yet history called it a victory. But what of people? What of the elves left without a home? To Taron it was no victory, not truly, for he saw what homelessness did to Morwen every day, and he did not fancy it greatly. Oh no, he was glad he could call the Angel his home – no matter how many tales of Annúminas Morwen told, no matter how lost she was in ancient folklore, which to her was very much reality and not the past.</p><p>His home was where Noora was, where he had grown up and where he had learnt to ride on a brittle pony, made his first steps and ploughed the fields. The place he returned to, after long months abroad. The Angel was his home, and one day he would come home, to never leave it again, to grow old with Noora, to see their children grow old and their grandchildren grow up.</p><p>“Where is Estel<a href="#_ftn4" id="_ftnref4" name="_ftnref4">[4]</a>? Where is the Dúnadan?” Many voices echoed through the hall – but the Dúnadan was nowhere to be found.</p><p>And the rangers of the north settled near the waving hand of Bilbo, who invited them to sit with him. He was holding a chat with Lord Elrond and with the other Halflings, talking about news of the South and North, and how the days grew darker.</p><p>Amongst them was a Halfling, neither of them had ever seen, with pale looking skin, almost waxen and conserved like the mummies buried in the Barrow-downs. Cold and sweaty, sick and unhealthy, so unlike his companions, brim with life, chuckling and giggling by his side. His eyes looked troubled and dark, not at all inviting and friendly like those of the other Halflings and a strange heaviness lay around his neck, making him sit hunched and weary upon a small stool, too large still though, for his feet dangled in the air. The air around him lay heavy and unpleasant, wavering to all sides and it’s whispery fingers wavering to other shores.</p><p>His feet were just as hairy as any Halfling’s feet and not an inch smaller, and all about him, his size and everything seemed typical of the small folk – but none of the rangers could forget the heavy feeling of his presence, something so unlike any Halfling, for they loved most peace and quiet and with that came gayness and joyfulness.</p><p>It must be the ring-bearer, Morwen thought, and a clinging urge nestled between her bones, to shimmy closer and take a look at the Halfling. It was unnerving and she could feel her tongue slip over her lips, licking them and looking hungrily at the Halfling. But he did look so interesting and compelling, and she could not help herself but wonder where he kept it.</p><p>The ring.</p><p>Where did he keep Isildur’s bane? Where did he keep the failure of her cousin? Where did he keep his shame? And would he ever grant her to look upon it, maybe even let her hold it in her hands. What would it feel like? What made Isildur keep such golden ring? A chuckle dripped over her lips and she marvelled at the weakness of her own cousin, for that he did not seem to be able to part with it. Surely if she had possessed it, she would have parted with it – would she not? But she need not too, because she would not get herself into peril. She was no princeling but a ranger, and she would not be killed for the golden band.</p><p>Oh no. And if anyone had dared to look at her but Aragorn, the malicious look on her face would have been counted as hostility.</p><p>A dark feeling overcame her and shivered down her spine, covering her back in goosebumps. A firm hand had been placed on her forearm and she looked in Aragorn’s stern eyes. His grip would have hurt her, if she had noticed the tightness of it. “Mor!” He hissed and the Perelleth looked at him irritated, before finally coming back to the living day light. Or rather the living darkness of the night. She shook her head and stared at her chieftain with startled eyes. “Compose yourself – maybe go for a walk.” He said finally and left her arm, let it sink to her side and dangle there loosely, not sure what to do with itself.</p><p>“Dúnadan!” Bilbo cried excitedly and Aragorn left her side, greeting the wrinkly relict. Morwen cringed, blinked and then clawed her fingers into Taron’s leg. “I-I should go.” She mumbled and disappeared with the blink of an eyelash in the shadows of the great hall, only the rim of her dress still shimmering in the wooden light.</p><p><em>The same blood flows through my veins </em>Morwen hissed and fastened her pace, to leave the compelling nearness of the ring. Oh, Aragorn had said that many years ago, when he had still been but a boy and how true it was. But not only simply did that blood flow through her veins too, but Isildur was her, her cousin, her closest relative apart from Baron. The same temptation ran in her veins, the same wish to be great again, to restore what once was of Númenor. To restore old glory and do better than Ar-Pharazôn<a href="#_ftn5" id="_ftnref5" name="_ftnref5">[5]</a>.</p><p>Driven by the wish to do mighty, she would do bad, just like Isildur before her, she would continue the curse. She panted and screeched lowly, sending the sorrowful cry through the woods of Imladris. A birch hummed disapproving besides her, and their roots stretched out, so Morwen stumbled upon them. She fell against the stem of the tree, pressing her palms against the bark and the old creature, growing since the beginning of time, hummed approvingly into her skin. It was not malignant, quite on the contrary, it seemed annoyed that she disturbed its peace, but willing to calm her down.</p><p>She rested her forehead against the gnarled wood and let the calmness vibrate, sing through her torn and disgusted mind, soothing the self-hatred and the shocked realisation. She did not understand trees, could not talk to them, but she could feel them and sense them, understand their sensation and emotions. That gift she had inherited from her father, bellowing through her veins proudly. A bitter smile spread over her lips and she cursed her mother for grasping what should not have been hers. For taking what was not hers to take – and her father for choosing what was not his to choose.</p><p>She would not grasp for the ring – she could not. She would not grasp for something that was not hers. For if she did, the world would tumble, not because it was her who grasped for it, she did not amass that much importance to her being, but because the ring seemed to be entwined with the Halfling irredeemably. It was only the dark lord’s and not even the Halfling’s, not even if it was best. It would betray her, just like it had betrayed Isildur. It would betray the Halfling eventually, to return to its master. Morwen shivered and pressed her body tightly against the roots.</p><p>From now on, she would keep her distance to the Halflings, or at least to that particular one and Morwen greatly admired Aragorn for resisting the urge of the ring and not giving in. She would not have made it a week, she thought. Not even a bloody week. Her fingers clawed deeper into the bark. But Aragorn was strong, stronger than any of them, stronger than Isildur and all that came after him.</p><p>And in Aragorn’s veins the blood of Isildur flowed now diluted, thinned by 39 generations. With it the urge to possess the ring had diminished. Or so Morwen hoped. Although, any other of the chieftains and kings before would have seized the ring, if chance given. Maybe it was simply Aragorn who was different. Aragorn who should have been a king of old and now he was one without a crown.</p><p>When Morwen looked up again, before her grey eyes stood a pair of brown boots, fastened in the elvish fashion, with small clasps of leather, bound and embellished with leaves of oak. The soft leather had creased at the ankles and left behind lighter veins in the skin. In them stuck a pair of grey velvet leggings and just above the knee a tunic of shimmering green silk covered the thighs. Its bearer now hunched down and rested their elbows upon their knees, balancing on their toes and looking sorrowful upon the miserable creature that called itself Morwen.</p><p>Legolas had sensed the dismay of the trees, disapproving and at the same time pitying the creature taking refuge in the roots of an old birch. It had whispered agitatedly and wonderous, and even if he did not understand the trees so clearly here and it had taken him a while to grasp their singing voice, he had found the origin of their agitation.</p><p>She had been lucky, that the birch was so kind and old, understanding, and wise, or she would have been granted an unpleasant stay. It was older than most trees around and Legolas wished he could understand them better, for he wondered greatly what ancient memory it carried beneath its branches.</p><p>But as the tree was benevolent and king, the roots had built a small enclosure for the Dúnadaneth, spinning her in like a child, weeing her gently. Almost like a spider weaving its threads over their victim, only the Perelleth before him was no victim and the birch no spider. Leaves brushed over her hair and Legolas placed a steady hand on the roots, thanking the tree and humming low some words, that the tree replied too with a gentle rustle of leaves. Some fell tarnishing to the ground and the golden leaves shone bright against her dark robes. It calmed and spoke appreciatingly with the elf, unsure of what to do with the Perelleth between its roots.</p><p>“You unsettled the trees.” The blond elf remarked and looked at his tree friend, or so Morwen assumed, for his eyes were fixed into the gnarled bark. That the woodland elves spoke with trees, she had not known, had never heard of it, had thought that the tales of the elves awakening the trees, were but a tale. But it did not seem to be and Morwen had by now forgotten her sorrows, or at least hidden them behind the wonder for Legolas’ doing. His hands were now wandering lovingly over the bark, so much gentler than what she had done to it before. They looked soft and gentle and yet she could see the rough skin on the tips of his fingers. He must be an archer, she thought, for only archers carried that pattern on their hands. Especially on the three top fingers of the right hand, where the middle finger was especially covered in calluses for it carried most of the weight of the bowstring.</p><p>Morwen could not pinpoint if the elves speech had been to reprimand her, or if he had simply wished to make the trees emotions clear to her. If he wished her to calm and not upset his companions. Legolas lifted his eyes off the branches and tip of the tree and now looked at her gripping hands, clearly reprimanding. “If you wish to find comfort in the forest, I advise you to not grip the tree so tightly, it hurts it.” He looked sorrowful upon the bark and Morwen eased her hand.</p><p>Legolas’ hair fell around his face like a cascade of starlight, and she could not help but wonder if it was the light of the moon and the stars or if his hair was truly this light, even under the sun. He hummed further along with the tree and his face grew dark, as if he had bitten into a sour fruit, he did not like. It whispered of rings and ruin and banes so old that even time had forgotten.</p><p>But he did not ask for her thoughts, for he did not want to intrude and the bundle before his feet looked more than happy to just stare and not say much. At what exactly he could not tell. Although she seemed rather fascinated by something in his hair. He looked down and found nothing but a few tangles, that he did not care for greatly. A few leaves had found their way into the strands and were caught on the small braid over his ear. Legolas plucked it out and placed it on the ground, in the pattern already made by the wind.</p><p>Even with her still existence, he did not feel it just, to leave her there alone. Maybe it was because she was one of Aragorn’s rangers, maybe also because he wondered if she would talk of something still tonight. Last time he had heard her raspy voice, she had spoken of her father and mother. He wondered if she would tell another tale, if he waited long enough, for Legolas did like tales and stories and lays and the Perelleth knew some, that he did not know yet.</p><p>It had not been a beautiful tale and Legolas was still astonished, that it was not told amongst the elvish folk. Not because it was not beautiful, but because a union between men and elves was as rare as the Silmaril. Now they all must sit in the hall of fire, listening to tales of the old and lays of the new, poetry and stories. Legolas did not wish to go there, for he had heard most of them already and he did not doubt, that tonight once more the tale of Lúthien and Beren would be told. He had heard it too many times to still take joy out of it.</p><p>Now he had a wailing Perelleth at his feet and could not stomach leaving her behind. Actually no, she had ceased the wailing and was now calm, the tree though had not retreated its roots and still built a small cave for the Dúnadaneth. The elf sunk against the root of another tree and stretched out his legs, draping them over the soft and mossy floor.</p><p>And for a long time, they sat together, Morwen thinking her own thoughts of the feast and her desire for the ring and Legolas of Mirkwood and the sorrows that lay yonder.</p><p>“The feast seems merry.” Legolas finally said, his ears listening to the faint sound of songs wavering down from the great hall. He knew the song, of Elbereth and her descent upon the sky, the tale of the most beloved star of the elves. “And yet you are here and not there.” Morwen remarked and loosened her eyes from the elf, meeting cornflower blue eyes.</p><p>Legolas called a clear and ringing laugh his own, like the springs of water in Annúminas he sounded, almost too ringing for her ears and too melancholic and she could not hold back a twitch. No, she thought, it was not exactly like Annúminas, but the fields yonder, before the walls of the city, where the streams still ran cool and clear and tinkled, but fields of wheat and cornflowers grew. Where in summer the heat made the air flair and glimmer and burn, where shadow was granted by trees on the shores and the view was a sight for sore eyes.</p><p>Legolas reminded her of a hot summer day, when the air was filled by little particles of dust, that gloomed in the shine of the sun and the only remedy was the cooling lemonade, served by maids and servants.</p><p>“The stories are not new to me, and this forest I scarsly see.” He mustered and a twinkle shone over his dark eyes, making them almost brown instead of blue. “I rather visit them, than tales told and spent.” He chuckled and stroked aside an astray flight of hair. Morwen rattled her mind awake again and reminded herself that staring was rude and unnecessary.</p><p>“What carried your feet here? Dúnadaneth? And unsettled the trees of these lands so deeply?” He asked now and it felt less intruding than before, almost as if his presence was wished upon. Morwen admired his truthfulness and honesty, something that was rare amongst men. At least that the elves called their own, they scarsly lied, their words, even when spoken in riddles, could be taken for granted. Given if you understood the riddles.</p><p>“Tales of old – of days passed and men dead.” She evaded and hoped that her vagueness did not bother the elf. “But let’s not speak of it, I rather wish to know – you speak to the trees?” She asked and wriggled herself to an upright position in the roots.</p><p>“So, do you.” Legolas said and looked upon her hand, still lying on the roots of the birch, now gentle and soft, not at all clamping like before. He was surprised by her question, for all elves spoke to trees – in some way or another.</p><p>But Morwen shook her head. “I do not understand them, can only see their feelings, sense them, in vague waves, as if they were a dream, that was constantly slipping through my fingers, thin as air and luminescent as mist.”</p><p>“Then you do not listen closely enough – everyone can hear the trees, speak to them, if only they desire to do so.” Legolas paused and a sad look overcame his handsome face. “Men do not wish to see, nor dwarves or fouler creatures. They only wish to see the fire and timber, the houses they can build and of what use the tree might be to them. Wish to see how they can furnish their ovens of stone.” His face grew softer again and the equilibriated stance came back. “But I have no doubt that you, Dúnadaneth shall learn to speak to trees.”</p><p>He overlooked the roots near him, letting his long fingers glide over them until her found one, seemingly to his liking. For he placed his palms against it and smiled. “It is easiest in the roots, for they are anchored in the earth and to other trees. Close your eyes, Dúnadaneth, listen to the hum of the earth and the voices of the tree, listen to what they have to say and understand.” Morwen bid to his demands and closed her eyes, placing both of her hands upon the roots of the birch, feeling the singing life beneath the tips.</p><p>It was old – ancient, she could feel it in the earth. Beneath her fingers, the tree rumbled and hummed in a voice she did not understand, a voice she could make out as words, but could not comprehend. Nonetheless it was beautiful and she grasped that the song was not composed for her, but for every living thing, rooting deep within the wood, in every ring of the years the tree possessed, singing to a different tune and she had to smile, for it reminded her of the music of the Ainur<a href="#_ftn6" id="_ftnref6" name="_ftnref6">[6]</a>.</p><p>But no matter how hard Morwen tried, she could not comprehend the words and after a while she ceased and listened to the song, now vibrating through her own veins, beautiful and complete, each tree humming their own tune to it and together the melody was whole.</p><p>After a while, she retired her hands and her mind from the roots, not before bidding farewell in her own language and opened her eyes again, to behold the wood elf, submerged into his own conversation. His eyes were open and yet he seemed to be dreaming. She did not dare to interrupt and watched the moon wander over the tip of trees, caressing the pines and needles, leaves, and branches. Some shone silverish in the light and even the brightest star was drowned out by the light of the moon.</p><p>Morwen wondered, if all his people were like Legolas, tied to trees and forest even closer than their kin in Imladris. For rarely did she see an elf of the Noldor speak to the trees and wandle amongst them at nights, where there were tales to be told and songs to be sung in their own halls. No, she would have greatly favoured the halls of Elrond and their tales over sitting in the forest – at least until now. But the trees had themselves sung so beautiful, that she did not miss the subtle voices of the elves and their complete songs, for the trees sung holier and now she did not desire to be anywhere else.</p><p>When Legolas remerged from his dream, he did not offer an apology and Morwen did not ask for one, for even if the night had almost passed and it was almost morning, she had not thought of it as waiting for the elf to wake.</p><p>“Did you now understand the words of trees?” He asked keenly and shifted his place. “I did make out their language, but I did not understand. Too foreign the words – nonetheless, their tune was satisfying and completing and therefore I did not mind to not understand.” She said wholeheartedly and smiled upon the birch, who had retreated its roots and seemed now to sleep itself.</p><p>“What did they speak of?” She asked the elf wondrously and felt in a dream, for the morning sun now shifted golden over the treetops and cradled the leaves lightly.</p><p>“They sung the same tune, of which you have spoken. The words speaking of the dying world, how autumn is dawning and stealing their leaves and making the world once more sink into deep sleep, covered beneath snow and darkness. They spoke of their longing for spring, when new leaves would grow and their roots would be warm again and of their southern relatives, that never lost their leaves and grew all seasons. They spoke of their leaves tarnishing the floor and the earth drying out, freezing to stone, of the eve of the elves and their leaving middle-earth and the loss of companionship. They mourned that no one would hear them here, that they would be silenced and fear the jagging axe of men. The fear that once my people have left these shores, their days have come too.” And a small fold creased on Legolas forehead as he spoke of the sorrows of trees.</p><p>“What have you told them?” She asked and mourned with the trees, for until now she had never thought of their fear and had only ever thought of her people. But truly, trees were sentinent beings and she had never pondered twice over hacking down a tree for firewood or building a new house.</p><p>Legolas smiled melancholically. “That not all men of this world could hack down all the trees, that with the leaving of my people, they would grow silent again and come back upon the old.” He sighed. “Not that they liked it very much, but they know of their sorrowful ending and if I could, I would bring them to Aman<a href="#_ftn7" id="_ftnref7" name="_ftnref7">[7]</a> – but I cannot, no one can, these trees belong to middle-earth, the elves do not.”</p><p>And with that he had said all, he needed to say and had spoken more than he had intended tonight. He had hoped for a tale and had been the one to deliver it. “Now, Dúnadaneth, that I have spoken so much tonight and you so little, and my heart longs for a tale I do not know, will you speak of one?”</p><p>Morwen looked at the elf in wonder and nodded then. “I fear I can only offer you tales of sorrow and little of joy.”</p><p>“Then tell me, why do the men of the north worship Vairë<a href="#_ftn8" id="_ftnref8" name="_ftnref8">[8]</a>, the weaver? For she is neither the lady of water, nor the master of doom and what little I know of Númenor, I know of their love for seafare and their fear of death.”<a href="#_ftn9" id="_ftnref9" name="_ftnref9">[9]</a> And so Morwen obeyed, telling the story of how they came to worship the weaver of the world.</p><p>
  <em>And in the times where the Numenoreans desired to visit Aman and the shores of Valinor and were not yet grim though, they paid homage to Vairë, the weaver of the worlds and her loom of Starlight and Sunshine wove the patterns that the world would follow. And Vairë took great interest in the Númenoreans for they embalmed their dead set for eternity and in some way or another, they themselves became immortal, although their souls stayed of mortal nature for the gift of Eru Illuvatar was not to be renounced. Nonetheless Vairë weaved gladly the ends of Tar-Minyatur and many more after him, for mortals were fascinating creatures to her, so short lived and many deeds they did in their short time upon the face of the earth. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>She was deeply troubled upon Mandos refusal to share with her the secret of the gift of mankind and for a while, she did not speak to him, for she was angered and felt betrayed by her mate. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>And when the Númenoreans defied the Valar and grew more weary and arrogant, she watched with care and then the Númenoreans drew their thread from her slender fingers and she no more wove the Future of their kings. Vairë was deeply angered by it, and asked her mate to curse them with the doom of Mandos – but he refused. And Vairë felt betrayed once more and much time passed before she spoke again to Mandos, yet the world did not perceive it, for time in Mandos halls drew slower and sometimes it was nonexistent. After all he was master and lord of the dead.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Nonetheless she watched the fate of the Númenoreans and sent harsh storms over the island and dark rains and even though the fate of people had been torn from her hands, she still carried the threads of the island in them and with quick fingers she wove dark and deadly storms and with that, the dark days descended upon the heirs of Elros and little was left of Beren and Lúthien and her sorrows which once she wove into the most glorious tapestry in Mandos halls. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>And for many days, Mandos watched her troubled and could not forget the sorrows of his mate, who was so deeply bruised by treachery of mankind. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Soon amongst the arrogant and doomed Numenoreans walked some that were light and fair and Eru and the Valar forgave those, for they were pure in their heart yet cowards and Mandos showed Vairë their deeds and she heard their prayers and she was gladder once more because the threads of their mortal souls were laid into her hands again and Mandos praised them, for they made his mate happier and more gleeful. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Long decades they bowed before the lady of the dead and placed their corpses upon burrows for preserve and Vairë was pleased for she could now weave their faces in peace and did not need to hurry and rush upon their arrival in the halls of waiting. And often was she seen – wandering amongst the burrows, not in body but spirit and the Númenoreans that were too greedy and arrogant to bow their head to the Valar soon grew to fear the misty creature, that seemed to take a hold of their dead and Vairë took great pleasure in taking away their ancestors and leaving nothing behind but uncompleted memories, for they had not reasoned with learning the faces of their beloved by heart for embalmed they lay, conserved for eternity. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>But Vairë blessed the burrows of the Faithful and her spirit was a well received guest among them and the Faithful did not fear the creeping figure of the weaver, for they knew of her powers and her protection over them. Altars of stone and wood and gifts were dedicated to the weaver of the worlds and often she took those gifts home to the halls of her mate for them to share and adornish their halls. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>And when Ar-Pharazôn sailed out – blinded by the coaxing tongue of Sauron, to conquer the lands of Aman and the seat of the Valar, Vairë spared the Faithful and led them through safe passage over the troubling waters and sent Elendil, who was then leader of the Faithful, a dream through Irmo, and Manwë blew wind across all the lands, yet the speck of sea, where Elendil sat, he spared and Vairë was grateful and glad for finally she held all the threads of the Númenoreans in her hand once more and never again, did they deter from the guiding hand of the Valar. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>And Vairë protected the burrows of the Númenoreans many ages of mortal men, until the Witch-king of Angmar took land and country and the dead from them and exiled the Númenoreans to the wilderness of the lands for his master, Sauron, blamed the Faithful for his failure upon the Valar and hated them most ardently – but the Firstborn he hated more. </em>
</p><hr/><p>Author's note:</p><p><a href="#_ftnref1" id="_ftn1" name="_ftn1">[1]</a> The Silmaril are jewels created by Fëanor in the First Age. Fëanor is a king of old and the Silmarils are considered some of the most crafty creations of the elves. They are created of the two trees in Valinor, which are later destroyed by Melkor. Melkor later on becomes Morgoth and the master of Sauron. When he destroys the trees, all the light left is contained in those three stones.</p><p><a href="#_ftnref2" id="_ftn2" name="_ftn2">[2]</a> The war of the jewels is the climax of the First Age, much as the last Alliance is the climax of the Second Age. During that war, Morgoth is exiled from Earth and banished to the vastness of the nothingness. In the process, two of the Silmaril get lost.</p><p><a href="#_ftnref3" id="_ftn3" name="_ftn3">[3]</a> Beleriand was a country that edged onto Middle earth during the First Age.</p><p><a href="#_ftnref4" id="_ftn4" name="_ftn4">[4]</a> Estel is the name used for Aragorn by Elrond, when he came to Imladris. Elrond only revealed his true name to Aragorn, when he was 20. Elrond feared that he would be killed, just like his father and grandfather. His father, Aranarth was slain fairly young by a pack of orcs and most likely it was no accident.</p><p><a href="#_ftnref5" id="_ftn5" name="_ftn5">[5]</a> The last king of Númenor, who was allied to Sauron and was part of why the Valar sank the island of Númenor.</p><p><a href="#_ftnref6" id="_ftn6" name="_ftn6">[6]</a> The tune to which Arda was created, by the Valar and Maiar. Those were the first beings to be created by Ilúvatar before the beginning of time.</p><p><a href="#_ftnref7" id="_ftn7" name="_ftn7">[7]</a> Land behind the island of Valinor, the undying lands</p><p><a href="#_ftnref8" id="_ftn8" name="_ftn8">[8]</a> Vairë is the mate of Mandos or Namo, keeper of the underworld and the dead. She weaves all that happens in the world into</p><p><a href="#_ftnref9" id="_ftn9" name="_ftn9">[9]</a> The Númenoreans wished to be as mighty as the Valar and the Maiar. They feared death, even though they were granted much longer life than any normal human race. What is named the gift of men, to them was not, for they wished upon themselves immortality. This defiance of the wishes and turning away from the graces of the Valar, caused amongst other reasons the destruction of Númenor and most of their knowledge, power and race.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Chapter 6</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>When Morwen and Legolas parted way, she marvelled long about the strange encounter and the happenings of the night past. Legolas had offered no words afterwards, instead placing his hand over his heart and disappearing in the long corridors of Imladris, two leaves still sticking to his back, fluttering down on the marbled floor as she watched his back move out of sight. And for a while she watched the space where he had stood before her.</p><p>Then her stomach grumbled and she decided to find herself an early breakfast for it was not yet break of dawn and she doubted that in the great hall she would find anything to eat yet.</p><p>Morwen found the kitchen already bustling with elves, hurdling across and preparing all sorts of dishes, ranging from eggs to grain mush and sautéed mushrooms. She wondered who had commanded such a hearty breakfast for she only knew of one people who would delight mushrooms early in the morning. Those peoples were Halflings or Hobbits as they wished to be called.</p><p>For a moment she wondered what the grain mush was called, dished onto the table plentily, for the Dúnedain might have called it porridge or havresgröt<a href="#_ftn1" id="_ftnref1" name="_ftnref1">[1]</a>. But she did not ask and therefore would not know.</p><p>“Is breakfast ready?” She asked of one of the passing by servants, who looked at her bewildered and then shook his head offended, as if she had asked him for his first born in return. “No, but help carry up the dishes and it will be soon.” He said and nudged Morwen over to one of the tables, where plates, bowls and arrangements of fruit were placed.</p><p>He could carry four or five plates – Morwen managed only two, fearful that she would drop them. Well after all she may be a ranger but not a servant – or at least only on Sundays. She chuckled. Slowly she ascended the stairs and followed the dwindling backs of servants, rushing past her and by the time she had walked to the great hall, only a story up and two corridors down, most of them had overtaken her already twice.</p><p>She placed the platter of fruit and the bowl of mush on a random table. “Don’t put the mile there! It belongs to that table.” The servant, who had asked her to help, yelled across the hall and she stared at the grain. <em>Mile </em>She marvelled at the simple word and wondered what language it was, for she could not name it. She picked up the wooden bowl and spoon, that was stuck in it, and carried it over to the mentioned table.</p><p>She was not the only one, implied to helping dish out breakfast, for she found more than one guard and two or three accountants of Lord Elrond carrying in plates themselves and amongst them she found the master of the house, in his hand a pot of honey and steaming brew of flowers. Morwen greeted him with a low bow and a smile upon her heart.</p><p>“Calan vaer Morwen Dúnadaneth.”<a href="#_ftn2" id="_ftnref2" name="_ftnref2">[2]</a></p><p>“Calan vaer hir-nîn Elrond.”<a href="#_ftn3" id="_ftnref3" name="_ftnref3">[3]</a> She greeted back and smiled. The lord of Imladris seemed calm and easy, not at all bothered by the council he would hold soon, and which would decide over the fate of Middle-earth. But maybe that was the doing of three ages spent upon this world. And plenty lived too.</p><p>He had stood by the side of Gil-Galad<a href="#_ftn4" id="_ftnref4" name="_ftnref4">[4]</a> during the last alliance in the second age, had seen his king fall and his lands fall to ruin and ash. Now he was master himself, over what could be counted as one of the last safe places in Middle-earth. She supposed to govern such stronghold, one needed a certain calmness and ease of spirit. Nonetheless she would never make the mistake to see the Lord of Imladris as docile or weak. Sometimes the calmest waters were the deepest and strongest, for the tide ever pulled underneath.</p><p>He gestured to a stool besides his. “Sit with me Morwen, for it seems that tis’ morning is a late one.” Morwen nodded and took place besides the lord of Imladris, wondering what purpose his invitation had. But the Perellon solemnly chuckled and bestowed upon her a beguiling smile. “It is simply the wish to speak to the oldest of the Dúnedain and no ruse.” He did not ruse anyways or not that she knew of and for a moment she could feel the stone beneath her clothing burn on her skin. Maybe it was time, she thought. But no, not now, not during these times. It would be safe with her.</p><p>She inclined her head and waited until he poured out the brew of flowers first to Morwen and then to himself, before she took up the honey and repeated the gesture, offering it to him and then taking for herself. He slung back his sleeves and took a sip, overlooking the few elves that sat scattered across the wooden benches. Most of them were his guards, often the captains, hurdled together and discussing who to send on patrol where and how to rotate today. He could catch some muttered words over the breeze of the autumn morning. His sons were nowhere to be found amongst said captains and he found them on the borders of his realm, Elrohir on the southern edge and Elladan western. But they were well and so he returned his mind to dwell on the Perelleth besides him.</p><p>Yestereve Elladan and Elrohir had returned from some scouting business and brought back news of importance. The Nazgul were strangely absent, the five he had washed away with the power of the Bruinen were presumably back at the fortress of their master in Mordor.</p><p>But the four others had not been found yet and Elrond was weary as to where they would show up in the dead of night, screeching and destructive. Such was the nature of evil.</p><p>But that was not of importance – not now anyways. He turned to the Dúnedain sitting at his table and mustered her.</p><p>One of the Peredhel she was, or so he assumed for certain he could not be. Eru had gifted the chance of choice only to the descendants of Lúthien and Beren, of which she was one, in indirect line, from his brother’s descent. But her father, Tûrdor was not, and he wondered if she had truly been gifted choice or simply believed so. Besides, Elros had made the choice of the Dúnedain long before her birth for them and he wondered if that decision could be revoked.</p><p>Baron had come to him, many yën ago, the same worries on his lips and mind and had gone the elvish way of life. And he wondered if it were because simply he was immortal or because he had truly had the choice.</p><p>But Morwen, Morwen had not, living amongst men and resembling them more than any elf. Yet she was not mortal, did not possess the gift of mankind. He wondered if she could choose it. Somehow he wished for her to not possess it, but to chose mankind so he could prove his theory. But then that would be cruel to her longing heart.  </p><p>One day, he would know. But for now, what he needed to hear, what he needed to know, was what she knew of the fate of Aragorn.</p><p>“Morwen, tell me, in the tales of Númenor, you write of the prophecy of Malbeth the Seer<a href="#_ftn5" id="_ftnref5" name="_ftnref5">[5]</a>, a prophecy on last king of the old.” She furrowed her brows and nodded. “Indeed.”</p><p>“Recite it for me please?” He folded his hands over his cup.</p><p>
  <em>Over the land there lies a long shadow,</em>
</p><p>
  <em>westward reaching wings of darkness.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>The Tower trembles; to the tomb of kings</em>
</p><p>
  <em>doom approaches. The Dead awaken;</em>
</p><p>
  <em>for the hour is come for the oathbreakers:</em>
</p><p>
  <em>at the Stone of Erech they shall stand again</em>
</p><p>
  <em>and hear there a horn in the hills ringing.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Whose shall the horn be? Who shall call them</em>
</p><p>
  <em>from the grey twilight, the forgotten people?</em>
</p><p>
  <em>The heir of him to whom the oath they swore.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>From the North shall he come, need shall drive him:</em>
</p><p>
  <em>he shall pass the Door to the Paths of the Dead.<a href="#_ftn6" id="_ftnref6" name="_ftnref6"><strong>[6]</strong></a></em>
</p><p>Morwen did not understand, for Arvedui was long dead and the old blood of Númenor all but spent. But Elrond furrowed his dark brows, towering elegantly over ashy grey eyes, not so unsimilar from hers and mumbled. Then he asked her to recite it again and dark shadows passed over his face, clouding it and yet he did not share his thought with her.</p><p>“It is seen as a prophecy concerning Arvedui?” He then asked and Morwen nodded. “Yes, well as I read it and Malbeth himself. The task to undergo to defeat the Witch-king of Angmar, but he never made it there, too scared he was of the dead and their doings.” She noted and saw thoughts rumble through the lord’s mind.</p><p>She remembered Malbeth the Seer, as if it were yesterday, a golden-haired man, which was scarce in the northern kingdoms, clad in white robes most of the time and with a tomb clambered under his fingers more often than not. He had been a sharp minded fellow, trained by age and good masters and on top had been a skilled seer. But now he lay in tombs underneath Fornost and would never see the light of day again.</p><p>To Lord Elrond, the prophecy was not speaking of Arvedui and a deep knowingness spread in his mind, pondering and sitting there for many days to come. But to Morwen, he spoke not of it, placing a smile upon his lips and thanking her for her services instead and turning his thoughts and attentions towards the waking people of Imladris.</p><p>Morwen understood the wink, stood from the place, offered and bid her farewell, the cup in her hands as she strolled out the door and towards her room, to dress in the robes of the Dúnedain once more. She did not think much of Lord Elrond’s question, or rather as much as one could think about the doings of an elf, as old as day. Quite simply they were not understandable. At least not to her.</p><p>…</p><p>Taron lured over the arch, entering the halls of Imladris, his sword sprawled cross over his legs and his coat hanging off his shoulders, fastened by the white star of Arnor. Well, he remarked, it was not as white anymore. Old wear and tear had gotten the better of it and turned it more grey and yellow than shinning white. Not that it mattered anyways. He would carry it even if it were yellow or red, cracked and beaten, for it was given to him by Aragorn – as any star was given to the rangers of the north.</p><p>Morwen had fled the feast last night, leaving them behind, so unusual for the Perelleth, who normally did not let the chance of tales and songs slip between her fingers. But something had troubled her and oddness now clad her in clouds – oddness he did not understand.</p><p>Aragorn had grasped for the shoulders of the Dúnadaneth and had shaken her, hissing her name sharply. Where her twisted mind had gone to, Taron had not understood, only that she had been far gone, far away.</p><p>When their chieftain had shaken her and woken her back to the living, she had looked as if she had seen a ghost. Pale and flabbergasted, almost otherworldly.</p><p>Now he had not seen her since the feast, even though he had passed by her room, where the bed had been unslept in and her robe not there, her clothes laying on a dresser, everything seemingly untouched and undisturbed. As if she had not been there the night before.</p><p>Now Taron knew of her crooked sleep schedule, that she needed barely any at all. But here in Imladris? She had slept always excessively, almost the same as men. It was understandable, for the forest floor did not make a very good bed and her homestead in the Angel was not comfortable but practical and sturdy, built to succumb the ages. With the light feather beds of Imladris, she had always slept like a baby, to not spend the night there was so untypical for the dark-haired, that it worried Taron.</p><p>Halbarad had only raised an eyebrow at his concern and pointed out that it was but the crack of dawn and that she may be with Baron. One could almost think the two were twins, so unalike in character, yet bound by so much more than blood. If they had not been siblings, he wondered if they would have been mates. He had shrugged off his concern and given reason to Halbarad, before following the higher ranking to breakfast.</p><p>Now it was almost midday and still, no sight of the Perelleth and her flinging hair, that she braided intricately and was rather proud of. She had reprimanded and mocked him many times for his uncombed hair, but why change what was, what had been for eons? Hair had always been carried in such manner by their forefathers and would be carried in such way by those to come.</p><p>Aragorn had disappeared early in the shy morning to some place he would not tell of. Voices whispered of a council held by Lord Elrond and that Aragorn were to be found there, but where named council took place, not a single voice could guess. But it was true, there had been exceptionally many guests around during these days, more than he had ever seen before in Imladris. Well for elves that meant scarsly little. Of one he was certain: Whatever would be decided in that council, would destine his path further on. He wished that it may lead him to the Angel and to his wife, home to his children and where his roots grew. But that was only a wish.</p><p>“A man of the south arrived this morning.” Morwen appeared besides Taron, letting herself fall onto the bench and pull one leg to her face, posing it on the bench, so she could rest her chin on top. Her bow was destringed and placed behind the bench, laying on the wooden rim. Halbarad barely noticed the sudden appearance and mustered her head to toe. But he saw nothing out of the ordinary.</p><p>“Where were you?” He asked unamused and she shook her head. “I Changed and then found that wandering man of the south, stumbling across Imladris.” Taron and Halbarad exchanged a glance.</p><p>“Who? Who is he? And why do you tell of him?” The Perelleth looked now rather smitten with the question of Halbarad and the man knew that he had exactly asked what she wanted him to ask. She nestled herself down comfortably, then spoke. “A man of Gondor – of the white city.” She muttered and a glowing sheen covered her eyes.</p><p>Halbarad had seen the glowering towers of Minas Tirith, the seat of kings and capital city of Gondor, where one day, Aragorn shall sit upon throne and the white tree<a href="#_ftn7" id="_ftnref7" name="_ftnref7">[7]</a> blossom again. But what should he care for a man of Gondor?</p><p>Morwen though had never lain eyes upon the great city and was greatly intrigued by it, for it was the Annúminas to Gondor and for the keeper of tales a treasure of immense value. The vaults beneath the city harboured many roles of parchment she had not read yet – A treasure immense and one she did not dare to miss out on if ever given the opportunity.  </p><p>“He goes by the name of Boromir, son of the steward of Gondor, son of Denethor.” There had been whispers in the south, that the steward of Gondor was not friendly to the old line of kings. Oh yes she had heard them, being carried to her eager ears, always hearing the words that were meant to be carried underneath the table, made for ears that were certainly not hers. But that was the nature of being in taverns and inns, people talked and even the most whispered words she could hear, her ears covered by strands of tangled and brute hair or a hood pulled deeply into her face.</p><p>The whispers she had heard this time spoke of Denethor. That he did not wish to give up his position, which was king-like and unmatched in power to any lord. But even Morwen thought them but rumours and to rumours she paid attention a little but not too much. This particular saying she had dismissed rather quickly, for who would dare to deny the throne of Elendil to his heir? Surely not even the steward of Gondor. Not even he would be so foolish - not that she knew him. “This morning he strolled in, without horse, torn apart and into shreds, apparently he had lost the horse on the way. But with him he carries grave news of Gondor. Aragorn will not like hearing of it – will not like what he has to say, if the rumours are true and the whispers do not deceive me.” But that man, Boromir he was called, seemed awfully fulsome.</p><p>Halbarad shushed her and looked sternly. “With rumours you come. Mor, what are we supposed to do with them? That Boromir of Gondor is seeking council from Elrond of Imladris is interesting – to the washwomen.” Morwen shook her head at the harsh words and then stayed silent, hanging after her own thoughts. And she wondered if she ought to pay closer attention.</p><p>After she had left the table of the Lord Elrond, she had returned to her chambers, had dressed in her gear and thrown away the socks, that were too worn to be mended once more and were now replaced by a new pair. When her boots had been laced and her quiver placed, attached to her harness, she stepped outside again, and found the weary man wandering Imladris. Where Lindir was to be found, she did not know, and no other elf was seen in sight.</p><p>
  <em>Morwen stepped closer to the man, who looked ragged and much like a ranger after many weeks in the field, only he carried a cloak embroidered and a sword with gold rim. Not very likely for a ranger to be caught in clothes this fine. Underneath he wore a tunic made for ridding at best, but not wandering the woods and boots that were too heavy to walk more than a day in them. Nonetheless he had the flair of a ranger almost perfectly adapted. He looked too tired too be considered proud or anything but exhausted. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Curiously Morwen stepped nearer and out of the shadow of the facade, giving herself away and into the view of the man, who turned around in awe, looking at the buildings and staring at the carven pillars, resembling more roots than stone, so intricately carved that they looked alive. He had wandered around Imladris for a while int his state and Morwen had followed him curiously, melting away in the shadows. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>When he lay eyes on her, he tumbled back, staring at her widely eyed and then falling to his knees, his mouth gapping and scrambling at her feet. Morwen paused and looked at the man rather discombobulated. What he had to search on the floor, she could not fathom and so she placed a hand on her heart and greeted him in elvish way, a way often adapted by her people. Maybe he would know the gesture, after all he was not crawling on just any lawn but that of Imladris. But he did not move and only stared greater and Morwen came to the realisation, that he had probably never seen one of the peredhel before. Or that he did not know her kind and mistook her for one of the Eldar. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>“My name is Morwen of the Dúnedain.” She spoke and presented herself to the disconcerted looking man and was now worried why Lindir had not shown his face upon the entry of the man into Imladris. Elrond must have sensed him stepping over his borders and into his lands. What had made the lord of Imladris so inattentive, that he had not seen the man enter? </em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Dú-dúneda-ain?” He stumbled and placed on his forehead a hand, to shadow out the bright sun, now peaking over the trees and greeting the day gladly. His pattern of speech was foreign to her and yet, she had a faint clue of where it came, had heard it before, being spoken in the Angel and the land beyond. The uncommon singsong of his voice was only common to one place and that was the south of Gondor. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>“You are a man of the south.” She marvelled at the large man, who seemed to compose himself now and scramble to his feet, pulling himself up on a vine, clinging to the side of the wall and out of the grass. On his hips and belt hung a great war horn, decorated with golden trim and cut from a large cow – or Morwen suspected it was a cow, for she did not know what other creatures may live in the south. Tilting her head, she looked now up at the man, still a few feet away and wondered what creatures wandled the lands of his homeland. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Am-am I in Riven-Rivendell?” He asked finally, still shaky, and unsure, but a complete sentence and Morwen nodded. Strange, she had not heard that in years – Rivendell. But yes, it was another name for Imladris. “Indeed, you are.” She mustered and the man sighed in relief, now a fierce and proud glimmer shine through his eyes. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Then bring me to your lord, tell him I am Boromir of Gondor, son of Denethor.” Proudly the words sounded over his lips and Morwen chuckled, how wrong she had been. “Man of the south, my lord is but the wind, the sea, the forest and my people, if you desire the Lord Elrond though, I shall bring you to him nonetheless.” She offered and the man nodded grimly, waving at her with his hand dismissively, as if she were but a servant. That did not sit well with the Perelleth, for she was one, but not to him. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Morwen concluded that the men of the south had greatly lost in politeness since she had last seen one. </em>
</p><p>So, she had led him to the study of Erestor, who had taken the man wondrously into his arms and lead him to his master. Boromir of Gondor had not thrown a second glance at the Perelleth, who had picked him up in the garden and to whom he owed his thankfulness.</p><p>“I rather wonder what the council has decided.” Halbarad muttered and looked at the bright sun. Today was beautiful once more and the sun warmed all that normally could not be warmed. Even Halbarad’s cold heart, cooled by fear and anger, warmed once more into the graciousness he had possessed most of his adult life and had only now changed into bitterness. It had come with the first of greying hairs and the second wrinkles. Had clouded his mind, that fear of dying and never being again – of not having enough time upon this earth.</p><p>He picked an apple from a tree nearby and bite into the white flesh. With noon came hunger and with noon came decisions, or so he hoped.</p><p>But they would wait many more hours, sitting on the bench and the gras below, under the apple trees, losing their heavy carriage and dispersing the red fruit over the lawn. Morwen picked up two and cut them into strips, handing them occasionally to Taron, but eating most herself. It was a light meal and soon she picked another two and cut them up again, to fill her rumbling stomach. This time, they were more sour and less sweet, and she relished the prickle on her tongue and the gift given by nature.</p><p>Halbarad lingered in the shadows, his legs out in the sun, stretched and comfortable like a cat, bathing himself in the sun.</p><p>When noon finally passed, Aragorn emerged from a secret passage alongst the way. He wore the clothes of kings, of velvet and gold, even finer than those of Boromir of Gondor. Well his father was only a steward. And on his eyes lay deep shadow, cloaked and veiled by many other thoughts. Morwen thought that truly bad had been decided and that the fare of the ring had turned illsided. The chieftain scurried his rangers around him. “The council has concluded itself.” He spoke and then: “Taron, I know your heart longs for the warmth of home and your family. I do not wish to hold you from them any longer. Go home, my friend – prepare for winter.”</p><p>And the ranger nodded, glad to obey his chieftains command, his heart already flying across the valley and the river, towards his people, towards home.</p><p>He did not linger longly in Imladris afterwards, but bid farewell to his chieftain, placed a hand upon Halbarad’s shoulder and kissing Morwen’s forehead, before disappearing in the light sun of the afternoon, down the hidden paths, that lead fastest to the Angel. When Taron was long gone and Morwen had bid him farewell and his cloaked figure had long disappeared out of sight, Aragorn spoke again, now even more worried and deeper troubled.</p><p>“Now – to the ring.” He looked around him, weary that any elf may hear what he had to say and shimmied the two out of sight of the main house, further into the woods, until they stood underneath a tree. “It shall be destroyed.” He spoke those four simple words, simpler than much that he had spoken before and yet they carried more weight than the entire world could shoulder. Heavy and cold these words rested between them and Halbarad was the first to question: “And how exactly? Did you not tell me, that it cannot be destroyed by any power of men, dwarves or elvish kind?”</p><p>“No, it cannot – that is why the task is so gruesome and painstakingly. Frodo, the Hobbit, the one who carried the ring to Imladris declared that he may go and destroy the ring, for it needs to be tossed into the fiery abyss of mount doom. The circle must end where it began, the ring must be destroyed where it once was forged.” And the chieftain looked less like arranger now and more like a king, bent by old and repeating sorrows. And Morwen thought that a circle never had an end and a beginning. But maybe a ring did, for the place it was smithed together may count as the beginning and the end at the same time.</p><p>“The Hobbit?” Morwen now asked and looked doubtfully upon her chieftain. Truly, she did not believe that Hobbits were capable of much more than smoking and growing pipe weed and the never-ending Trott of peace and quiet – maybe disturbed by the one or the other scandal and adventurous Halfling. They were a steady folk, that much was true, but courageous and strong? Not so much.</p><p>But Aragorn nodded. “The Hobbit shall go, not alone but he shall carry the ring.”</p><p>“Aragorn.” She urged and a painful expression came to her face, speaking of worry and anguish and the thought of the power, that the ring had exercised over her and which she had not been capable of combatting the slightest. “He is strong, Mor, and your fears are not his, do not take the Hobbits for foolish creatures.” Then he paused. “Well at least not that one.”</p><p>His hands wandered upon the shoulders of both. “Not a word of it, to anyone! Understood?” And the two nodded. “Now, I will ride out to scout the lands. Morwen, I want you to stay here and be a messenger to the Lord Elrond. At least until we march, which could be any day. And Halbarad, go to the Angel and prepare our people – the lands are uneasy, they will not grow more peaceful any time soon.”</p><p>“Forgive me Aragorn, but may I take leave? I am to spend the winter in the Angel?” She asked him and he nodded, not understanding. “Forgive me, but my roof is leaky and my cellar empty. If you can spare me, please send me to the Angel, for winter is coming.” He looked at his third in command and then nodded. “Very well, Halbarad you shall stay here and Morwen shall go. But Mor, prepare to house two or three guests?” He did not explain further but rather let go of their shoulders and nodded contently, that at least that had worked.</p><p>Morwen had been right, after all he placed the strain of more than one guest upon her every winter and often his own presence. He would need her before the end – before he left.</p><p>“I will leave tomorrow, tonight I have to say goodbye to Baron.” She had followed him, where Halbarad had long disappeared to make himself at home in Imladris. He would not like it greatly, but it could not be helped. Aragorn nodded agreeingly, looking at the Perelleth. He had first seen her as a young boy, clad in the same grey, with the same braids, unchanged then and unchanged now.</p><p>They had fleeted by, bringing news to the lord of Imladris, but he had never forgotten the Dúnedain afterwards – until he had himself been made part of them.</p><p>Now it was time to say goodbye once more, without knowledge of return. And If he would not, if he would not return, his people would lay in the safe hands of Halbarad and Morwen and that took a small stone off his hearth. Rather a large stone, if he thought about it thoroughly.</p><p>Morwen lay a sullen hand on his arm, squeezed it lightly, turned and flew back to Imladris, almost invisible between the darkling trees.</p><p>…</p><p>“Baron.” She called after her brother and made him halt, wandering to some place she did not know. He was alone and she was grateful for it. She did mind stealing him away from those he called his friends and did not do it willingly – most of the time at least. She caught up with him, her gear still in her hand, looking as if she were to disappear into the woods at any moment. “Are you going somewhere?” She asked and he shook his head, looking her up and down and then smiling.</p><p>“No, not tonight.” He mustered and looked at the firmament, shining bright and silverish. It had been a sunny day and it would be a clear night. “I am leaving tomorrow – to the Angel.” Morwen followed his gaze, so in love with the stars, smitten by Elbereth<a href="#_ftn8" id="_ftnref8" name="_ftnref8">[8]</a> the most.</p><p>He rested an arm around her shoulder and looked down at his little sister, an eery sullenness on his character. “Then let’s drink tonight.” Morwen smiled darkly.</p><p>Baron had learnt a long time ago, that darkness did not mean coldness, that the lingering dark Morwen carried on her brows was not of evil spirit but of earthen origin, warm and steady – but it was dark and that would never change. Morwen was the dark lady and she would not become the light lady, she would never become Galadwen<a href="#_ftn9" id="_ftnref9" name="_ftnref9">[9]</a>.</p><p>And when he had looked at the cool light of the stars, he had learnt that lightness did not always mean warmth and beauty could be as cold as ice. And that Galadwen could be much colder than Morwen would ever be.</p><p>…</p><p>When they had lain in the grass of old, a bottle of Miruvor<a href="#_ftn10" id="_ftnref10" name="_ftnref10">[10]</a> between them, warming and soothing, and the night had changed to day and the stars had disappeared behind the warming mantle of the sun. When dawn cracked, Baron had detangled his hand from hers, had bid farewell and followed the trail, Gildor of the Havens led.</p><p>
  <em>You and I, we are of the same. Of blood and flesh, of steel and wood, made for immortal rott, or mortal life. Chose freely and choose wisely, for the same may not always go with the same but rather the opposite. </em>
</p><p>And Morwen knew, that he would not be seen again upon the shores of Middle-earth.</p><p>
  <em>Namarië<a href="#_ftn11" id="_ftnref11" name="_ftnref11"><strong>[11]</strong></a> </em>
</p><hr/><p>Author's note:</p><p><a href="#_ftnref1" id="_ftn1" name="_ftn1">[1]</a> Actually, this is some mutilated Swedish, not sure why, but somehow I felt like the people of the north would speak similarly, or at least retain some words from Adûnaic, their ancient language. Tolkien did not really leave much notice about Adûnaic so I am left a bit to guess. What I do know though is that the Dúnedain either spoke Sindarin or Westeron. But as Aragorn was raised in Imladris and most of the Dúnedain stand in close contact with Imladris and Elendil and his kingdoms spoke Sindarin, I think a simplified variation of Sindarin would have been used, mixed with some words of Adûnaic. Nonetheless in day to day talks, Westeron must have prevailed as Sindarin is described to be a very difficult language and Tolkien himself once said that he did not imagine elvish to be used safe for poetry and not for the banalities of life.</p><p><a href="#_ftnref2" id="_ftn2" name="_ftn2">[2]</a> Good morning, Morwen of the dúnedain</p><p><a href="#_ftnref3" id="_ftn3" name="_ftn3">[3]</a> Good morning, my lord Elrond</p><p><a href="#_ftnref4" id="_ftn4" name="_ftn4">[4]</a> Elvish king, that falls side by side with Elendil during the last battle of the second age.</p><p><a href="#_ftnref5" id="_ftn5" name="_ftn5">[5]</a> He was seer at the court of Arvedui’s father, Arvedui was the last king of Arthedain and the last king of Arnor.</p><p><a href="#_ftnref6" id="_ftn6" name="_ftn6">[6]</a> Poem by Tolkien out of Unfinished Tales, I believe.</p><p><a href="#_ftnref7" id="_ftn7" name="_ftn7">[7]</a> For those who do not remember, the white tree of Gondor is shown in the movies and only blossoms when a king returns.</p><p><a href="#_ftnref8" id="_ftn8" name="_ftn8">[8]</a> Elbereth Gilthoniel, the most beloved star of the elves.</p><p><a href="#_ftnref9" id="_ftn9" name="_ftn9">[9]</a> Light lady</p><p><a href="#_ftnref10" id="_ftn10" name="_ftn10">[10]</a> Elvish med, infused with herbs</p><p><a href="#_ftnref11" id="_ftn11" name="_ftn11">[11]</a> Good bye</p><p>I know sometimes there are some inconsistencies, for example with the language spoken generally amongst the rangers. I have finally concluded that it is mostly Westeron and well I hope it is not too confusing in the chapters. They do speak Sindarin often too, but definetly not with the elves and not on a day to day basis. Well I hope you enjoy it nonetheless. But I will definetly have to go over it all, once the story if finished and revise each and every chapter. But that won't be for another while so.... There are still quite a few chapters to come. </p>
  </div></div>
</body>
</html>